


Like Cats and Dogs

by isamariposa



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Compliant, Canon Typical Depression, Come Marking, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Gags, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Makeover, Mortality, Oral Sex, Past Infidelity, People who dislike each other to lovers, Period-Typical Sexism, Porn with Feelings, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Sex, as happy as this canon gets i guess, one-sided Valana, one-sided Valoris, threesome discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-07-30 08:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20094187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: Boris takes one look at Ulana's ugly clothes and declares she can't attend a meeting at the Kremlin dressed like that. Oh, she can protest all she wants, but he WILL make sure she's presentable. Both end up with a little more than they bargained for.Ch1: How Ulana came to wear that nice blue dress in the Cabinet meeting of episode 2.(...)Ch8: Happy ever after, or the next best thing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Sleepless_Malice for discussing this chapter with me a while back.
> 
> I'm breaking my rule of not posting unfinished work with this, but I feel the first chapter works well as a standalone if I don't make progress with the rest. I do have a long outline, and a smuttier chapter 2 is ready, in any case, let me know if you'd be interested in reading more.

* * *

The map is too large to fit on the helicopter table, evidently designed for meals and coffee, not for averting a nuclear disaster. But Legasov folds it out anyway and Ulana sits next to him on the bench. He is short-tempered and impatient, but he does listen. Their conversation flows more like a fight, firing back ideas at each other, but they do make an embryo of progress. Ulana likes him, she decides.

Of Shcherbina she doesn't know what to think.

He's been pointedly making himself scarce since she joined them. He glanced at her with disinterest as she argued with Valery, only breaking his silence to say, 'Right. We're going to Moscow,' when it became clear the situation was dire. He then disappeared to arrange the ride and the meeting, presumably, and hasn't said a word since. Ulana glances at him, sitting near the pilot cabin. He looks... despondent. Out of it. Completely surpassed by the circumstances. It worries her, because if _ this _ is the leader of the operation, they're fucked in so many ways - Ulana has seen her share of Party men and their useless decisions. 

"Three men," Legasov concludes. "Three divers should be enough."

"I'd rather send only two," Ulana says. "But it'll have to do."

"Is it settled, then?" Shcherbina asks, surprising her. He _ was _ listening, after all. He has a deep, gravelly voice. When Legasov nods, he adds, "I'm having my secretary prepare copies of the plant map and the map of the area for every member of the Cabinet. Do you need anything else?"

"The report," Legasov says.

"Yes, she's having it typed as well. But not a single person in that table will read the report. Are you prepared to speak, and to be brief?"

He talks like a sergeant, drilling his soldiers. Ulana stiffens, disliking the tone at once. But Legasov doesn't seem to mind.

He says, "Yes, of course. But I'm thinking Khomyuk should speak as well." He meets Ulana's gaze, warmly. "After all, without her we wouldn't know of this development."

Shcherbina glances at her, as if noticing her for the first time. "Yes, fine," he says, gruffly. "We'll have to get clearance for her. Are you in the Party?"

"No," Ulana says, a little put off. "But I'm an upstanding citizen."

"Hmf," Shcherbina says, unimpressed. "We'll see about that." 

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Legasov says, lighting a cigarette. 

Shcherbina glances at her again, this time with some marked disgust.

"Is that what you'll wear to the meeting?" he asks, dryly.

The question is odd, intrusive. Ulana is too startled at first to be properly angry.

"Well, yes," she answers, and then her outrage catches up with her. "What kind of a question is that?"

"No one will take you seriously if you're dressed like _ that._"

She glances down at her brown overcoat, hiding her orange jumper. It's a good jumper, fluffy, serviceable, comfortable. Her red shirt underneath sufficiently clean, only a little wrinkled. It's not the epitome of elegance but she looks perfectly presentable.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she asks, indignantly.

"You're a walking disaster, that's what's wrong," Shcherbina answers with a chuckle. "And you're certainly not attending a Cabinet meeting dressed like that."

"I beg your pardon! Who the hell do you think you are, and why the hell does it matter what I wear!"

"It matters a great deal and forgive me to be blunt but I can see perfectly why you think it doesn't matter. Well, you're wrong. You're not wearing that, and that's final."

Ulana is nearly choking with anger at the chauvinistic, patronising, humiliating tone.

"I guess I won't go, then, because I don't see what else I'm going to wear!"

"Khomyuk," Legasov says, pleadingly, as if trying to defuse the situation.

"I'll handle this," Shcherbina says, and stands to make his way to the pilot cabin.

"Whatever you're planning, I won't put up with it!"

"I'll handle this," he barks, and disappears in the cabin. 

Her ears are buzzing with how furious she is, but she can make out the words, Marfa, dress, and personal favor shouted over the radio microphone.

"Try not to take it personally," Legasov says, apologetic. "It's important that they listen to us, whatever it takes."

Whatever it takes. Ulana closes her fists. The last thing she imagined when she discovered a nuclear reactor exploded was that she'd be insulted for her sartorial choices by some churlish Party man.

* * *

There is a black car waiting for them in the airstrip after they land in Moscow. For a moment, Ulana considers not getting in, but it's not really an option, is it. Shcherbina is handed some documents as soon as he sits and he leafs through them under the car's uncertain inner light, leaving Ulana and Legasov to stare at each other in awkward silence. It soon becomes apparent as they drive through the darkened streets that the car is not headed towards the Kremlin. Legasov clears his throat.

"Comrade Shcherbina, I can't help noticing, the meeting is at 10 tonight and it's already a quarter to 9, I'm wondering if it wouldn't be best to head there right away and review the documents."

"It's fine," Shcherbina says, dryly. "We have time."

"Dare I ask where the hell we're going?" Ulana asks.

"We're buying you a suitable dress," he says, and he sounds amused, the pig.

"Oh, lovely," she bites back. "I wasn't aware Deputy Chairmen were also fashion connaisseurs."

"I was married for twenty years," Shcherbina says with a shrug. "And I've worked for the government for forty. I know how women should dress for occasions like this. I know it better than you, in any case."

That's it. She won't stand for this a minute longer. Ulana reaches for the door handle, never mind the moving vehicle, but Legasov covers her hand with his own.

"Ulana," he says, very gently. How bold of him to use her first name. It disarms her momentarily.

"I don't know what the problem is," Shcherbina says, nonchalant as he continues reading whatever garbage it is he's reading. "We'll be in the shop for 15 minutes, you'll wear the dress to the meeting, and then you can toss it in the garbage for all I care."

"The problem is," Ulana starts, raising her voice, but Legasov _ squeezes _ her hand and for a moment she has the distinct impression that she's stepped into one of those jocular comedies they play in low-brow theaters. She trails off, waiting for a punchline that doesn't come.

"We're here, in any case," Shcherbina says, and the vehicle stops. He gets out of the car. 

For all that Ulana wanted to get out earlier, now she can't make herself move. Legasov lets go of her hand, finally.

"Please," he says. "Just play along."

"Play _ along_? You don't think it's outrageous how he presumes to dress me, as if I were some, what, cabaret girl? Do you see him dressing you?"

"Actually, he lent me this tie before we left Pripyat," Legasov says with a sigh as he strokes his impeccable beige tie. "He said it looked like I hadn't changed clothes in three days. I haven't, mind you," he adds, with a playful smile that makes him look younger.

Ulana can't help a chuckle. "That explains the smell, then," she teases, and fine, she can do this for Legasov. 

Evidently no shops would be open at 9 o'clock on a Sunday night, but this is just a small store, the kind where the owner lives upstairs. A seamstress store. There is a light inside. The nearly faded out sign on the window till reads, _ High fashion for ladies_. Before Ulana's eyes roll out of her head, Shcherbina rings on the bell and a woman opens promptly.

"Boris Evdokimovich," she says, sounding delighted. "I could not believe it when I got the phone call."

"Marfa," Shcherbina says, simply, and bends down to kiss her on both cheeks. "It's been too long."

"Too long," the seamstress agrees. "You know I was very sorry about what happened to Sonya."

"Yes, I got your letter. Thank you for the sentiment, it was much appreciated."

"You could have still come see poor old Marfa for tea," she chides. "But I suppose it would bring back too many memories."

"Something like that," Shcherbina says, sounding unexpectedly soft, and Ulana glances at Legasov in alarm, but he clears his throat. "Well, forgive the late hour, this is a bit of an emergency, I could think of no one but you."

"Of course," Marfa says, and she smiles warmly at Ulana. "Come along, dear."

Ulana was prepared to step inside with a huff, in great strides as if to make her displeasure crystal clear, but there's something warm and matronly about Marfa the seamstress that demands a minimum of civility. Infuriatingly cowed, Ulana steps inside, and the two men follow her.

"Now what's the occasion?" she asks, speaking to Shcherbina and ignoring Ulana completely.

"Meeting at the Kremlin. Formal, but professional, nothing superfluous or flashy."

"Oh, I think I've got just something that could work for that." She turns to Ulana, finally, brandishing a worn out sewing measuring tape. "Take off your coat, dear, and hold out your arms."

"Is this truly necessary?" Ulana asks, perhaps too bitchily.

"Yes, of course. I've got to measure you to make sure the dress fits."

Before she can think of a thousand arguments against this, Shcherbina is behind her, taking off her coat forcefully. Ulana feels manhandled and outraged, but then Marfa is slipping the measuring tape around her waist, and brilliant, just brilliant, now everyone can bear witness of the rather unbalanced curves of her body. _ Please don't say the numbers out loud_, she finds herself praying, but thankfully Marfa only mutters 'seventy four' to herself. The tape stretches considerably around Ulana's hips, resting on the curve of her ass, and she's incredibly aware of the looks of the two men on her. Oh, for fuck's sake, she hasn't felt this awkward since she was a gawky teenager. When the tape measure travels up to her chest, Legasov makes a noise that has Ulana whip her head in his direction.

"Smoke!" he mumbles. "I'm going outside to smoke," he says, and disappears promptly out the front door, the coward.

Shcherbina, in contrast, has taken a seat in a chair, and watches as her breasts are measured with what appears to be marked disinterest. For some reason, that's ten times more humiliating than Legasov's discomfiture. As if Ulana were an object of no particular importance. She feels herself flushing.

"You've got lovely eyes, my dear," Marfa says, as if to put her at ease as she measures the length of her arm. "I have just the right colors for that."

"Thank you," Ulana says, and regrets immediately how sarcastic she sounds.

"Step into that cabinet to the side and start undressing. I'll bring the dress in just one moment." She turns to Shcherbina again. "I've got two in mind, a dark blue one, very subdued, and a green one to go with her eyes."

"Let's try both," Shcherbina decides, and Ulana glares at him as murderously as she can manage before she makes her way to the little cabinet to change. 

Just who the hell does he think he is! Why is she putting up with all this? Willingly walking into an irradiated disaster felt markedly less daunting than being put on display like this and letting a man decide what she should wear. Whatever it takes, Legasov said. Well, this is a lot to take.

Growing up after the war, Ulana was never one to mind whatever clothes were handed to her from her older sister; as long as they were warm and didn't have too many holes, they were suitable. But that doesn't mean she doesn't recognize nice fabric when she sees it. She's sitting in the little cabinet in her bra and panties when Marfa comes in after a discreet knock, and she can barely hold back a gasp of surprise. These dresses are _ fine_. Finer than anything Ulana has ever worn in her life. She reaches to touch the material almost reverently. So soft. She glances up at Marfa in awe.

"I knew you'd like them, dear," she says before she shuts the door. "Let me know if you need help with the buttons."

Ulana needs help with everything, truth be told. Her hands are inexplicably trembling as she undoes the buttons of the green dress. She nearly drops it when she takes it out of the hanger. She worries her lipstick will stain the fabric when she slides it over her head, so she tries several configurations before sighing in frustration.

"What are you possibly doing in there?" Shcherbina asks, alarmingly close. "Are you done with the first?"

And then! And then he opens the cabinet door, and Ulana is still in her bra and panties. She screams.

"What's the matter with you, you pervert pig!" she yells, and Shcherbina shuts the cabinet door just before she manages to land a punch to his face.

"Marfa," she hears him say. "We're going to need underwear as well. Something with lace, discreet."

Ulana opens the cabinet door, not caring that she's half naked.

"Excuse me? Are you dictating what underwear I'm supposed to be wearing? This is a serious meeting! Who the fuck is going to be looking at my underwear?!"

"Everyone," Shcherbina says, dryly. "Those appalling things you're wearing will ruin the cut of the dress. And a bra, Marfa. I don't think her current one fits. What is she, a 95?"

"Fuck you," Ulana says, because that's exactly what it is, and she slams the door of the cabinet shut.

She puts on the green dress like she would put on a sack of potatoes, with not a care in the world. As she steps outside of the cabinet, she's very aware of her red face in the mirror - and of her messy hair.

"Well," Shcherbina says, looking up at her up and down appreciatively. "You look gorgeous." Ulana gapes at him. She was not expecting a compliment. "Unfortunately I think the neckline is too deep for this meeting, it looks unprofessional."

"What a pity," Marfa says. "It matches her eyes so wonderfully."

"Yes," Shcherbina says. He meets Ulana's gaze and holds it long enough for her to feel flushed all over. "It really does."

"Well, my dear, here's the underwear, in any case. Try it on for the blue one. Boris is right, you know. You can see the line of your panties through the dress."

Mortified, Ulana snatches the bra and the panties Marfa is handing her without looking at them, and disappears in the cabinet again. Once inside, she can't help marvelling. She's never owned anything like this. These look like they were made in the West, delicate and snug and _ sexy_. Any woman would feel like a goddess wearing these. I'm a nuclear physicist, Ulana reminds herself, well above such trivialities, but damn, that bra feels good against her breasts. It lifts them up somewhat, giving her a rounder figure like she hasn't had in at least two decades. She puts on the blue dress much more carefully, and slips a hand into her hair to arrange it somewhat.

Shcherbina smiles when she steps outside the cabinet. A small, nearly sorrowful smirk, but a smile nonetheless. It's the first time she's seen him remotely happy since this disaster began.

"Beautiful," he says, with that low, gravelly voice of his. "Perfect."

His blue eyes can be very expressive - she didn't notice that about him, before. His admiration for her appears genuine, but there's also a very faint flicker of lust in his eyes that ignites something in her, something so violently unexpected that she can only stand there a little dumbfounded as Shcherbina's gaze leaves a searing trail down her body.

"The shoes," Marfa says, startling them both. "Let me go see if I've got something in the back."

"My shoes are fine," Ulana says, her voice a little unsteady. 

"They are," Shcherbina agrees, surprisingly. "But not for this dress."

Marfa returns with a pair of black leather shoes with very fine heels. They look Italian, or something equally foreign and extravagant. Heavens, this must cost a fortune. Ulana sits in one of the chairs, staring down at them, wondering if she'll even be able to stand in them and not make a fool out of herself. She shouldn't be in this ridiculous situation. She should be preparing to give the most important briefing of her life, not playing dress-up with a complete stranger.

"Let me help you," Shcherbina says, and suddenly he's on his knees in front of her, gently prying the shoes from her grasp. 

Stunned, Ulana watches as he slides one warm hand behind her calf to hold her leg. With the other he removes her right shoe, gently using some force to take them off, and then his hand wraps around her bare foot, holding it tightly for a brief, exquisite moment. Ulana has to bite her lip. What is the matter with her? That is, maddeningly, the exact moment Shcherbina chooses to glance up at her, meeting her gaze like a blaze of fire. He slides the new shoe in her foot, just as gently as before. The fit is cozy and comfortable, but all Ulana can think of is the moment when he will hold her other foot, and she finds herself out of breath. His touch is warm and firm on her left foot, and she's definitely not imagining how his other hand wanders oh so very slightly up her calf, high enough to rest just under the back of her knee, where he gives a subtle little squeeze. 

It would be a shame, Ulana thinks in a haze, to ruin the best pair of panties she's ever owned on the first night.

Shcherbina stands up and offers his hand to help her up, feigning nonchalance but Ulana can tell he's a little discombobulated as well. He gestures towards her lips and Ulana gapes at him. Is he, what, asking for a kiss? In front of Marfa? When they've only met a couple of hours ago? It would be... scandalous to say the least, but somehow that doesn't seem the most bewildering part of the evening. Intrigued, she takes a step closer, a little hesitantly because of the new shoes.

"Your lipstick," he says, hoarsely. "Fix it. You'll know how?"

"I know how to put on lipstick, Shcherbina," she says, angry at herself for having even considered otherwise.

She returns to the cabinet to look for her purse and rummages in it to find her lipstick. She bends in front of the mirror to put it on, but in doing so, she catches the reflection of Shcherbina and Marfa at the till. He has his wallet open and he's pulling out a handful of notes. A very big handful of roubles. Ulana's first instinct is to protest loudly. But then again, this was his idea, wasn't it? His stubborn idea of work-appropriate clothing. Let him cover the ridiculous expense then, that'll serve him right.

"You've chosen well," Marfa is saying softly. "She's very beautiful."

"Hm," Shcherbina says, noncommittally.

"There's nothing wrong with thinking about remarrying, you know. So many years have passed since Sonya died, people would understand."

"I don't have much longer to live," he says, with the same bitterness he had in his gaze when Ulana first met him. In less than one day, Chernobyl has robbed them all of a future.

"Nonsense," Marfa says. "You're not too old, you have some good years before you. I'm sure she'll make you very happy."

Shcherbina meets Ulana's gaze in the mirror, aware that she was listening. Caught, she breaks eye contact and returns to her lipstick. Her face is very red. 

"Maybe she would," he tells Marfa with a chuckle. "But who knows what tomorrow may bring? Thank you for this, my dear old friend. You're a star."

"Anytime, for you!"

When Ulana rejoins them, Marfa hands her a paper bag with the top folded.

"A little something for you, as a gift from me," she says with a wink.

Ulana peeks in the bag: there are two more pairs of panties and a bra. She mumbles a thank you.

"This one's from me," Shcherbina says, gruffly, and hands her another paper bag so forcefully he nearly knocks her backwards. It's the green dress.

"No," Ulana says. "I can't."

"But you looked so beautiful, dear," Marfa says. "You can't possibly blame him for gifting it to you."

"This is highly unorthodox," Ulana tells him, managing to raise an eyebrow. Her heart beats wildly when he smiles at her.

"I know," he says, dryly, and leads her out of the store.

Outside, Legasov has nearly finished his cigarette. His face lights up when he sees her.

"Oh, you look so beautiful!" he exclaims, and then looks abashed with his sincerity.

"I'd rather look smart," Ulana grumbles.

"Why not both?" Legasov says and offers his arm to help her in the car. 

She meets Shcherbina's gaze before she steps in the car. He's smirking at her again, and her grip tightens on Legasov's arm as she feels her face flush red.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: the rating has been upped to Explicit!
> 
> Thanks a million for your support of the first chapter, I hope you continue enjoying this. A shout-out to the Discord server for the many discussions and encouragement.
> 
> [Visual aid for this chapter.](https://chernoblank.tumblr.com/post/186907920714)

* * *

It's the First of May, and the day is deceptively sunny, the kind that might put Boris in an excellent mood and have him declare that all is well on this Earth. But nothing is what it seems in Chernobyl. He tries not to think of the invisible poison contaminating everything they see, touch, or breathe as he stands next to Legasov, who is trying to make the spectrometer work a scarce five hundred meters away from the reactor. An UAZ begins its approach on the dirt road, lifting a dangerous cloud of dust around it. Legasov covers his nose with the respirator, but the vehicle stops far enough from them, and Khomyuk jumps down from it, dressed in comically large beige army slacks like their own. She waves the driver away and makes her way towards them as she tears off her own respirator. She's tied her hair in a ponytail, but it isn't long enough to be held back completely, and short wisps of black hair fall onto her face anyway.

"We were supposed to start at 7 sharp," Legasov tells her impatiently.

"Good morning to you," she answers, just as unpleasant. "I'm sorry I was delayed. Apparently _ someone _ gave orders that I should wear military attire while on the field," she says, looking straight at Boris with a smoldering glare. "General Pikalov had to have a word with me."

"You were distracting the soldiers with your skirts," Boris says, abrasively enough to make her rage more.

"Then perhaps the soldiers should be trained not to be so easily distracted with a pair of legs," Khomyuk says, more calmly than Boris expected. 

He thinks of answering, 'Can you blame them? They're a very nice pair of legs' to make her angrier, and if Legasov wasn't there he might just do it. It wasn't only the soldiers who were getting distracted. Not many women remain in the exclusion zone, and her stubborn choice of clothing makes her stand out even more. It's not that her skirts are too short (hell no: ugly, grey things covering below her knees), but trousers would have been more suitable for field work. It would have made life easier for Boris, in any case, without being constantly reminded of how firm her calves felt under his hands when he helped her put on the new shoes in Marfa's shop.

Khomyuk steps closer until she's standing directly in front of him. She's wearing low-heeled shoes that must have escaped Pikalov's vigilance, so it means she has to look up to meet his gaze, eyes narrowed.

"Let me get this straight. Am I a doll, that you insist on dressing me on your whims?"

"No, definitely," he says, ruefully. "A doll would argue less."

Her face grows red, but she insists, "And yet you're so determined to control what I wear that you send Pikalov to me like your errand boy?"

"I figured you'd fuss less if he were the one to have a word with you. It worked, didn't it? You wore the uniform."

"I wore it," she snarls. "But barely. This is the smallest size and it still doesn't fit me. Your soldiers will be distracted tenfold if my trousers fall down."

She is still angry, but her wry little smile makes Boris wants to laugh, for the first time in this wretched day.

"Maybe you could borrow Legasov's suspenders," he says lightly, and when he glances at him he finds that he is glowering at them.

"If you're quite done discussing fashion, can we please go back to the spectrometer?" he asks, bitingly.

"One moment," Boris says, and unbuckles his leather belt. It makes a swishing sound as he slides it off his waist.

He takes a step closer to her, belt still in hand. She gapes at him, her mouth opening in the perfect shape of an O, round and slightly pink from the lipstick she apparently refused to wipe off this morning. Boris notes, with some surprise, that he is rather violently attracted to her just now. He takes a deep breath and slides his belt in the belt loops of her army trousers, having to circle her with not just his arms, but with his entire body as he adjusts it around her waist. It's too big for her, evidently, and he has to use the very last hole to tighten it, but instead of clasping it around her waist, he tugs her trousers down gently, until they are resting further down her hips where her girth is wider. The buckle snaps shut with a metallic sound. 

"Better?" he asks, his voice a little hoarse, still standing way too close to her. 

He's a little wary of meeting her gaze, but when he does, he doesn't regret it: there's fire in her eyes, the kind that makes him want to hold her and lift her and take her somewhere where no one will hear the kind of filthy uses he can give that belt.

"Yes," she whispers, and breaks eye contact. 

Khomyuk tugs her trousers down to test them, but they stay on firmly. She clears her throat and steps away from Boris, to give her attention back to Legasov. 

"Shall we begin?" she asks him.

"Yes, finally," he snaps.

"You might want to use the other button for the settings we want," she tells him, and Boris watches as she flutters around him, helping him set up the spectrometer and becoming engrossed in the task as if nothing, nothing at all just happened between them. Of course: she's here to work with Legasov. 

Well, he's not needed here anymore. Boris knows when to make himself scarce. 

He steps away from them, back to the vehicle where he and Valery drove here this morning. Once inside, he pulls out a pen and the briefing he's supposed to be preparing for his phone call of the evening, and tries very hard not to notice how tightly the ill-fitting trousers hug the curves of Khomyuk's ass as she stretches to make the measurements.

  
  
  


* * *

  


This is the most morose Worker's Day celebration that Boris recalls as far as his memory goes. One lone bottle of vodka in the darkened conference room of the Polissya, nearly lost among all the maps, papers, and calculations he doesn't understand. An eternity ago, this was a night for cocktail-parties in lavish palaces of old, suitably decorated to extol the triumphs of socialism. Vodka and champagne flowed freely, and the general camaraderie of other Party members livened up the soirée. If he goes far enough into his memories, Sonya was at his arm all night, making the kind of easy conversation that charmed even the most unpleasant comrades.

Boris shouldn't be thinking of this. Not now. Not here.

He pours himself a drink, and since Khomyuk is sitting next to him, he pours one for her too. She lets her reading glasses slide down her nose to look at the gesture and then reaches for the glass. Boris makes a move to pour one for Legasov across the table, but the other man refuses with his hand.

"Well," Boris says, wryly. "Happy Worker's Day to you."

Khomyuk clinks their glasses together and drowns her drink in one sip.

"I spoke to my assistant in Minsk earlier," she says, staring at her empty glass. "The Parade went on as scheduled. The wind was blowing from the southeast." She raises one eyebrow. "From here."

Legasov sighs loudly and removes his glasses to rub his face with his hands. When he puts them back on again, he slides his glass towards Boris, who fills it eagerly, as well as his own and Khomyuk's again.

"Good of you to join us, comrade," he says, just as wryly as before. 

"To the workers of the World," Khomyuk adds, with just enough sarcasm to alarm Boris. Her file is impeccable, but the hardships they've been through are fertile ground for discontent. But she's only smiling at him, a playful little smirk that doesn't reach her eyes. Boris licks his lips.

"Are you positive this area has such high levels of Cesium 137?" Legasov asks as he points at the map, throwing himself into more work despite the late hour.

"Yes," Khomyuk says impatiently. "I led the measurement unit myself." She turns to Boris. "I'm afraid I had to discard your belt afterwards. The buckle became absurdly irradiated in that area."

As did she, Boris thinks with unease. He wishes she hadn't gone. He wishes Legasov had managed to stop her - he even called her insufferably stubborn, but then again, so is he. Perhaps that's a trait all scientists share.

"No matter," Boris says, trying to keep his tone light despite his dread. 

"It's too bad, though," she says, her voice low and playful. "It was a good belt. Firm and supple."

Boris nearly chokes on his vodka but manages to finish his drink calmly. Is he losing his marbles or is she in fact attempting to flirt with him?

"I've got plenty of others you can borrow," he says, evenly.

"I might just take you up on that offer," she says, and grins.

"I really hope you don't," Legasov says, so dryly it shocks Boris a little. "You should have been wearing better protection out there."

"I'll wear better protection when you start wearing it as well," she says, raising an eyebrow and restarting an age-old argument between them, because if anyone in the room is careless when taking measurements, it's certainly Legasov.

"I'll be fine," he says, with a huff. "I'm aware of the dangers I'm exposing myself to."

"If _ you _ are, imagine how aware _ I _ am, being trained in nuclear physics," she fires back.

"You should BOTH be more careful," Boris interjects, not wanting yet another repeat of this circular argument. "Neither of you is replaceable at the moment."

They don't argue with him, to his surprise. They both look sufficiently scolded for him to wonder if his authority over them is, in fact, not just an artifact of his government position and whether they're actually inclined to listen to him on occasion. Well, that certainly puts him in a better mood. He refills all three glasses, feeling borderline giddy with this small victory.

"Yes, well, the Cesium," Legasov says, getting back on track with the initial conversation and impervious to any attempts to lighten the mood with the drinks.

"Legasov," Khomyuk says with a sigh. "It's very late. Why don't we stop for today and start early tomorrow?"

"People are in danger of death as we speak," Legasov says, with a hint of outrage. "And they will be until we establish the areas that need to be evacuated."

"Fine," Khomyuk says, resigned, but drinks a little more.

Boris eyes her, impressed: the woman can hold her liquor. She listens to Legasov's tirade patiently, interjecting with observations of her own as if she were perfectly sober. 

He glances at her discreetly: like them, she changed back into her usual clothes, ugly skirt and all, though her attempt of a ponytail has become undone by now and her hair is messy. The way she's sitting has the skirt riding up all the way to her knees. Boris has a vivid urge to put a hand on her thigh. It startles him. It must be the vodka, he reasons. The vodka, and the goddamned fire that won't be put off fast enough, and the three heroic divers who are currently suffering abominably in the hospital. He reaches for another drink and sips it slowly, savoring the burn it leaves on his throat. He can see her knees, actually, plump and pale under the skirt. Really, what would she do? Would she gasp in outrage? Slap his hand? She didn't seem completely indifferent when he was buying her the dress. Or this morning, when he put the belt on her. Or just now, with her 'firm and supple' comment. Oh, he has got to stop thinking of this. She's not some hired girl to be fondled under the table. Legasov himself would be offended if Boris attempted anything untoward.

He'd defend her honor, wouldn't he? Like a knight in righteous anger. 

Boris watches them argue in their jargon, engrossed in their little science world where he doesn't belong, and it must definitely be the drink because he's filled with an impish desire to make his presence relevant, to disrupt everything, to make this horrid day end. Perhaps that's what makes him reach for Khomyuk's thigh. 

She stiffens at the touch. His hand is large enough to cover most of her thigh, and he gives it a squeeze. Khomyuk doesn't break eye contact with Legasov, apparently with her full attention on him, but her left hand slides down the table, and she pushes Boris's hand off with surprising force. Well. That's far more discreet a reaction than Boris expected. Intrigued, he reaches to grope her again, this time squeezing hard enough to wrinkle the fabric of the ugly skirt. Khomyuk is, once more, quick to push his hand off, though this time she grabs his palm and crushes it in her grip, hard enough to shock Boris before she lets go. She's quite strong. The little exchange wasn't as discreet as the first, but thankfully Legasov was pointing at the map and noticed nothing.

Boris is working up the nerve to try a third time, certain that this time she will shout or slap him, but as he eyes down to her lap, he notices her spreading her thighs, sitting herself rather improperly in the chair with her legs wide open. The invitation couldn't be clearer. Now, Boris doesn't think himself as an old man very often, but the way he hardens in his trousers, so stoutly it's nearly painful, is certainly worthy of note. It makes him feel like a boy of fifteen, fondling a classmate while the teacher is distracted.

He reaches to touch Khomyuk's thigh again, this time finding soft skin under his palm. He takes a deep breath before sliding his hand up ever so slightly. The higher he moves, the softer the skin. As he grazes her thigh, he moves his thumb up and down, caressing her and nearing the alluring warmth between her legs.

"I think," Khomyuk tells Legasov, her voice perfectly normal as she removes her glasses, "that a radius makes no sense whatsoever. It should be a shapeless zone, following the radiation levels. Unfortunately, I don't think bureaucrats can reason without radiuses."

She looks straight at Boris when she says 'bureaucrats', her disdain clear in her tone. He meets her gaze calmly, despite his thumb grazing the fabric of her underwear. Her face is slightly flushed. Boris doesn't want to know what he looks like right now, and he'd very much like to adjust himself in his trousers. Legasov sighs and stretches, putting his hands behind his neck with a yawn.

"I think you're right. We won't solve anything tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, with a clearer mind."

"Yes," Khomyuk agrees, perhaps too eagerly. "We should _ all _ go to bed." 

"Yes, I'm beat."

Boris removes his hand hastily, because Legasov is standing up, and then looking at them both, hesitating and gesturing at the nearly empty bottle of vodka.

"We haven't finished the bottle," Legasov says, as if embarrassed to be cutting the evening short, and Boris is suddenly torn with the urge to either reassure him he's welcome to stay and drink with them or to rudely wish him away.

"We'd better not," Khomyuk says very sensibly. "We shouldn't be hungover tomorrow."

"Right," Legasov says with a sigh. "Another dreadful day awaits. Goodnight, both of you."

"Good-night," she says, in a sing-song, and Boris grunts in acknowledgement.

The tension in the room is a palpable thing, thick and heavy as Legasov heads out. Boris's mouth feels dry. The door of the conference room has scarcely been shut for ten seconds that Khomyuk turns towards him.

"You'd better finish what you started," she says.

"Hm," Boris says, and drops the formal address. "Come here, then."

"Here?" she repeats. She blushes, evidently startled. "I thought we'd go up to your room."

"Here," he says, his voice low and hoarse. "Here with all the maps and papers, and where Legasov will sit in the morning."

He doesn't know what makes him say that, what makes him bring Legasov into this, but his cock fills even more at the thought. Khomyuk blushes harder, wide-eyed - her reaction making it worth it already. She swallows, then, and seems to take it in stride. She stands and in two steps moves closer to his chair. She doesn't hesitate: she climbs on him and straddles his lap, only pausing as if to see if he'd object. Boris is too bewildered to react at first. That this would happen was a possibility when he started touching her, of course, but her boldness disarms him momentarily - until his brain catches up with his dick, that is. Flustered, rattled with lust, he grabs the back of her thighs, lifting her skirt in one swift movement.

The panties.

She's wearing the panties he bought her in Moscow, or one of the pairs in any case. His mind draws a blank and he stares at them, his breath already short at the sight.

"It seems you _ are _ my doll, after all," he manages to say, "to dress as I please."

She smirks at him. "Don't flatter yourself. They're the most comfortable thing I happen to own now."

"Is that so? And did you think of the man who bought them for you when you chose them today?"

"No," she says with a scoff. "I wouldn't feed his narcissistic fantasies."

Boris brings a hand forward and rubs her over the panties, where the lace makes a little bow. His fingers can feel what he's looking for through the fabric. She shudders and holds on to his shoulders tighter. 

"But did you think of me? This morning, with the belt?" he asks, his voice husky as he strokes harder, and she lets out a throaty _ Yes _ with her moan.

Satisfied with the admission, he pulls them down her thighs without letting go of her, ridding her of them and tossing them on the table - over the accursed map. Ulana laughs then, loudly, and she bends down to press a hungry kiss to his mouth. She kisses hard, and she bites his lips. He loves it. Her skirt has fallen back down. With one hand he continues rubbing her, her wetness all over his fingers, and with his other hand he undoes his trousers as deftly as he can, desperate to be freed of them. 

Ulana runs her grip over his length as she pulls him out and gives him a few appreciative jerks. She's the one who sits on him, so swiftly and decidedly that he has to blink back and groan. He didn't think it would be this _ fast_, either. But it occurs to him: they never locked the door, anyone could walk in - Pikalov with even more bad news, a soldier sent to clean the room, Legasov who forgot a document... Boris lets out a strangled noise at this last possibility. She must be aware of this urgency as well, explaining her impatience to get on with it. But in her haste she seems to struggle with the girth, and entering her like this is excruciating. She's so tight. Boris rests his head on the back of the chair, eyes closed, and he grabs her hips firmly, pushing her down on him until he's all the way in.

She cries out.

"Quiet," he shushes.

She's panting, lips trembling against his mouth. With his grip still on her hips, he makes her rock over his cock as slowly as he can manage without losing his mind, but she keeps letting out short whimpers.

"Don't make me gag you," he warns.

"I'd like... to see you... try," she manages with a smirk.

"You'd bite me?" he goads.

"I'd bite you."

He leans closer to bite her neck, light enough not to leave a mark (what would Legasov think, he wonders for the blink of a moment, and it's the third time he's inserted him in this scenario and for some reason Boris would love to see the look on his face as understanding dawns on him, but why?) but hard enough to make her gasp. Ulana grabs him by the chin, forcing him to still.

"Don't," she growls, and it's astounding how commanding she manages to sound when he's still so deep inside her, hidden by her skirt.

"Yes, my doll," he teases, and Ulana devours his mouth with an enraged kiss. 

He regrets having insisted they stay down here, because he'd love nothing more than to rut in bed with her, naked, to make this last and to pin her down on the bed and fuck her senseless against the mattress, letting the pillow muffle her moans. But short of climbing on the conference table, which seems a rather complicated exercise in equilibrium, or using the dusty dark red divan that likely hasn't been cleaned in months, they're rather limited in the ways they can do this.

"Get up," he tells her, when they've picked up enough of a rhythm that she's sliding up and down on his cock with more ease.

They can't climb on the table, but he can bend her over it, and she lets out a moan when she understands. She rests her arms over the maps and the sheets of paper covered in Legasov's handwriting, and Boris lifts her skirt again to enter her. He grabs at her - spreads her, and she's touching herself already. He can fuck her harder like this, and reach around to cover her mouth with his hand when she's loud, though instead of biting it she starts sucking on his fingers, and for once the reactor and death are completely absent in Boris's mind as he loses himself in the tightness of her cunt and comes deep inside her with a grunt.

He barely makes it back to the chair, where he sits to catch his breath. Ulana leans her forehead against the table, _ over the map_, likely to recover as well. 

As he calms down, Boris becomes more aware of their surroundings and the magnitude of what they've done catches up with him. What if the room was bugged? The dialogue likely wasn't audible, but the moans? Neither of them was especially quiet towards the end. Well. It isn't like it'll be a surprising addition to his file, considering the more dissolute aspects of his long career in government circles. He tucks himself back in, glancing at her warily. If she shows even a sliver of mellowness or affection, he must rebuke her, anger her, push her away. But Khomyuk is looking at him, still flushed and wide-eyed, but with no particular fondness for him in her gaze. She looks lustful, ravenous, fiery in the aftermath, but mainly bemused - just as bemused as he feels that this happened to them.

"Don't tell him," is all Boris comes up with, in a warning tone, and he doesn't know why it's so painfully important that this remains a secret.

"Don't you think he'll guess it?" She lets out a chuckle that rather sounds like a scoff as she straightens from the desk. "It smells of sex in here now." 

It's true, there's a lingering smell of sweat and semen and of _ her _ in the room. It's fine. They can leave the door open. Boris will radio in for a soldier to clean the room at five in the morning with plenty of detergent before they start their day.

But then Khomyuk says, "You wanted him to know, I think," and Boris's heart jumps in alarm.

She retrieves her underwear from over the map, slides it back on under her skirt and straightens her clothes. Arrogant little woman. She's known them for what, three days, and she presumes to know his motives and his secret thoughts, and to understand the inner workings of the delicate balance they've had to establish since she inserted herself in their working unit?

Before he can put her in her place, she says, "Goodnight, Comrade Shcherbina," neutrally enough, and disappears out of the room without sparing a glance in his direction.

Bewildered, Boris reaches for the bottle of vodka. That was one hell of a Worker's Day after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter 3 is ready for now, but after that, I'm not so sure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm not overstaying my welcome with this pairing, let me know if you're still enjoying it. Unapologetic porn for this one.  
I might need a beta for characterization in later (?) chapters, hit me up.

* * *

Ulana hesitates only briefly before knocking on Shcherbina's door. 

On the one hand, it reeks of desperation to seek him only two days after having impromptu sex in the meeting room. On the other hand, she doesn't really give a damn what he thinks.

Or maybe she does give a tiny little damn, because she left the bottle at the bar instead of taking it upstairs with her - so that her intent wasn't so obvious. She sat there for a long moment after Legasov left, gathered her papers and worked up the courage to come knock on the door - or rather, smothered her pride enough to do it.

Shcherbina takes some time to open, and when he does she discovers why: he must have been undressing for the day. He's wearing his customary white shirt, half open over his chest and tucked out of his trousers, and he's fiddling with the buttons on the cuff of the right sleeve. He doesn't have shoes on. It's the first time Ulana has seen him without a tie. It's also the first time she's seen a glimpse of his bare chest. He raises an eyebrow at her and smirks, as if guessing what brings her here at this late hour.

"Legasov is sending me to Moscow," she blurts out, if only to take his arrogance down a notch.

He frowns and opens the door wider to let her in. As Ulana steps inside the room, she wonders, was she not supposed to tell him? Legasov seemed intent on secrecy, but does that also include Shcherbina? She has a healthy distaste for these Party men and their arbitrary decisions, but in the scarce days they've spent together Shcherbina has proven himself useful once or twice. Legasov either sings his praises to her, or bitches mercilessly about his decisions, which gives her the distinct impression of being around an old married couple on the verge of divorce rather than the two leads of the Chernobyl commission. But he seems to trust him, that much is clear, and she could use his insight.

The room is much more spacious than Ulana's, naturally. She eyes the larger bed full of pillows with some resentment. Everything is immaculately tidy, even the suit jacket and the tie that he's just taken off are already hung in the half-opened closet. For all that he teased Legasov the other day, he seems to own at least one pair of suspenders as well. She thinks of his belt, again, and wonders how many more are hanging in his closet, like he promised, and can't help her breath from catching. Shcherbina walks over to the bedside table and turns on the radio nearly at full volume. The 11 o'clock news are on, filling the room with a drowsy, monochord voice.

"I have every reason to believe that this room is being monitored," he explains, standing unnecessarily close to her - likely so that they can speak freely, but she becomes very aware of his presence, of his body. His cologne is strong enough that she can smell it on him rather than the day's sweat. He has almost no hair on his chest.

"Your room is bugged? _ Yours _?" she asks, in disbelief.

"Legasov spends a lot of time here," he says, and then adds, "working." That was a rather unnecessary clarification. Ulana bites the tease from her tongue, because he adds, "What's this about Moscow?"

"He came to see me, doe-eyed, and asked me to go to Moscow and research more about the causes of the accident," she says, deciding on a whim to be honest, and throwing her head back to push some hair out of her forehead. "I need to know if that's likely to cause me problems with your government."

He chuckles. "My government is also your government, comrade."

She glares at him. "You know what I mean. How likely am I to end up in jail if I dig around?"

"Why are you asking me? Do I look like KGB to you? I just told you my room is bugged."

"Aren't they your friends? I know how chummy ministers can get," she sneers.

"You know absolutely nothing, and actually yes, let me answer your question: with that attitude of yours you're very likely to end up in jail."

He makes an exasperated sound and steps away from her to continue fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. When he finally undoes it, he shoulders it off as if it were perfectly normal to undress in front of her. Rather taken aback, Ulana stares at his bare back now. He looks very fit for a man his age. Shcherbina folds his shirt neatly and slides it in his bag of dirty clothes, then turns towards her.

"So? You are still here?" he teases, and Ulana feels her face warming. "I'm going to continue undressing whether you leave or not."

"I wish you'd answer my question seriously," she says, stubbornly clinging to a conversation she wasn't even planning to have.

"I just did. And you haven't told me what this is about, really." He steps nearer again, to stand very close to her until his voice only needs to be above a whisper. "What kind of digging are we talking about?"

"Interviews," she says, just as softly as him, forcing herself to look at his face and not at his nipples. "The plant workers."

Shcherbina mutters a curse. "Yes," he says. "That will land you in trouble. Why is Legasov being cagey about this? Why not come to me? I could get you clearance for this in a few weeks."

"We don't have that much time," Ulana hisses. "These men will die this week if they haven't already."

Shcherbina paces away from her, shaking his head, and then comes back towards her, pointing a rather infuriating finger at her face. Ulana feels like batting it away, but she only keeps her head high.

"Be smart about this. They know about you, so they'll follow you. But they also know you're working with me, so they will not stop you unless you're stupid about it. Ask your questions, be discreet. If you need anything, papers, signatures, call my secretary. You remember her?"

"Natalya Petrova, yes."

"Good. And don't come crying to me if you run into trouble."

"I don't know where you get the impression I'm likely to cry to you about anything, Shcherbina," she bites back.

"No, actually. You're a feisty one, aren't you?"

He chuckles, and Ulana smirks at him. _ Now we're talking_, she thinks, and takes a step closer to him, so close they're now nearly pressed against each other.

"I see how it is," Shcherbina says, dropping his voice even lower. "You wanted to say goodbye to the old man before leaving?"

"What gave me away?" Ulana says, and gasps anyway when he slides an arm around her to pull her against him.

He doesn't answer: he kisses her instead, so fiercely that he'd knock her backwards if he wasn't holding her so firmly. His tongue slips into her mouth, and as she reaches to hold on to his bare shoulders, the hand holding her slides to her ass to give her a squeeze. It's not exactly a surprise that he'd be this expedient, but it still unsettles her how quickly her own desire ignites, and she meets his tongue until he's groaning into the kiss. His other hand sneaks its way between them to stroke her neck, his touch becoming more firm when he reaches the upper part of her chest, and then he's pinching her nipples over her dress. 

Good grief, is this going to be as quick as it was in the conference room, she wonders, still shocked, as Shcherbina pushes her onto the bed.

He undoes his trousers and slides them down swiftly, along with his briefs, before climbing onto the bed, and Ulana notices that he's only half hard, which is in equal parts disappointing and also relieving - she did not want to be done in five minutes, but judging from the urgent feeling between her legs, perhaps she did. Valery's gentle will-he-won't-he apparently has her more frustrated than she anticipated. The first thing Shcherbina does is to rid her of her shoes, folding each leg high up as he slides them off. 

"Sorry I'm not dressed to your impossible standards today," she tells him, as he undoes the buttons of her dress and pulls it open, now on all fours on top of her.

"I'm rather concerned with you being not dressed at all right now," he says, hoarsely.

He does mark a pause when he has her stripped down to her underwear - she is, naturally, wearing the kind _ he _ likes, mainly because _ she _ likes them as well, but she can guess from his smug gaze that he imagines she did this _ for _ him. Ulana rolls her eyes at him and starts unclasping her bra, but he grabs her hand to stop her with some force, and doesn't let go until he has her completely naked.

"Remember," he says as he cups one of her breasts with a hand, "our KGB friends are listening, and Legasov's room is next to mine. Keep it down."

Ulana can't help a wry laugh. "Is it normal that you're so overly concerned with Legasov every time we do this?"

Shcherbina frowns at her, as if momentarily at a loss for words. 

"He wants you," he says, gruffly, and this would be a most interesting conversation if he weren't teasing her nipples so distractingly.

"Don't be absurd, of course he doesn't," she manages, spreading her legs hoping to get some attention in that direction. 

For one moment tonight, down in the bar, she thought Valery might be flirting with her - the way he stepped towards her, looked at her, bit his lips while talking to her. But he disappeared so abruptly after giving her instructions she can only assume it was her own wishful thinking. 

"Not all men think with their dicks, apparently," she adds.

It's Boris's turn to laugh - though she doesn't like the dry mockery in his mirth as he finally clues in and rubs a finger on her clit. 

"_All _ men think with their dicks, Khomyuk, even your saintly, doe-eyed Legasov."

She lets out a gasp as he rubs harder, then remembers she's supposed to be quiet, and grits her teeth to say, "I find it fascinating that out of the two of us, you're the one giving more thought to Valery's dick."

The face he makes has her regret the tease immediately: ashen, outraged. Of course, he's not made for these games, her suggestion is unthinkable. Or is it? She props herself up to kiss him hard, hoping to make herself forgiven, though this is definitely a conversation she'd like to revisit another day before tempers flare. He seems content enough to let it go for now and resume his fondling, though he does seem to rub her more roughly, out of revenge perhaps. She tries pushing his head down, but he resists, and when she insists, he pulls away from her with an irritated sound.

"What," he asks, glaring at her. "What do you want?"

"Your mouth," she answers, matter-of-factly, and he makes an even more irritated sound. "What, too much to ask of the Deputy Chairman?"

"I don't know why I ever thought being with you would be straightforward," he grumbles.

"Straightforward?" she repeats, a little offended. "Is that what you're used to, straightforward, transactional sex?"

Of course he is, isn't he. A man in his position, used to being pleased, never having to work hard for this... Though he was married once, and everything in his interactions in that little seamstress shop seems to suggest he was a devoted husband - or devoted enough to be mindful of his wife's wardrobe, whatever that means. Poor wife, if he was like this with her too.

"You know nothing about me," Shcherbina says, brusquely, and gets off from her.

Ulana sits up too, following his movement, and wavers between letting her annoyance run its course or to fix this, because she's naked and worked up enough that she doesn't want to cut this short so abruptly.

"You're right," she says, managing to sound conciliatory for the sake of her pussy. "So why don't you show me?"

He glares at her, but lies down on the bed, on his back. He motions for her to come nearer. Confused at first, Ulana gasps when he grabs her by her thighs and all but drags her forward to sit on his face.

"Go on, do your thing," he says, impatiently, and as he speaks his lips are so close to her cunt it's as if he were kissing it himself.

Still a little shocked, Ulana starts riding him, then, using the headboard of the bed for support as she rubs herself on his mouth. She never thought he'd like it like this. She tightens her thighs around his face to keep him in place, and not only he doesn't protest, but his tongue... She's the one dictating the pace, going as fast or as slow as she wants, and he's quick to follow her lead, wantonly licking her up and down and in circles to match her moves. It's impossible to keep quiet when she's all but fucking herself on his lips. Shcherbina holds her thighs to force her to still for a moment and she looks down at him to meet his gaze, breathless, panting.

"Do I need to shove these in your mouth to keep you quiet?" he asks sternly, showing her her discarded panties that he's rolled into a ball. 

She can only nod at him, wide-eyed, as she opens her mouth to receive them. Ulana can be as loud as she wants then, no longer holding back as she resumes her frantic pace on his tongue until she quivers into his mouth, so intensely she can barely hold herself upright against the headboard.

She's not very aware of it, but he's grabbing her thighs again, making her slide her down his body. He's hard now, and Ulana lets out a muffled moan as he guides her onto his cock. Should she start calling him Boris, she wonders, dizzily - what's the etiquette for this, surely having someone's dick inside her twice calls for first names? None of her encounters of the past ten years have qualified for a repeat. She's too out of it to be of any use on top, but Boris rolls them onto the bed so that he's the one riding her now. Ulana doesn't know how long it lasts, how long she lies there, helpless and amazed as he pins her down more and more with each of his thrusts. He reaches to take the panties out of her mouth and replaces them with his own mouth: she can taste herself on his lips, and she feels him shuddering hard into the kiss as he comes inside her.

She needs to... She needs to get her bearings, recover from this. Ulana rolls away from him on the bed, not wanting to look at him as she catches her breath. She can hear him panting as well. On the radio, the announcer has now moved on to the sports section, drowning on about this or that medal that someone won. Ulana focuses on that to calm down.

"I was unfaithful to my wife when she lived," Boris says, after a long while.

She turns towards him, startled to hear him speaking at all but also with his choice of conversation. He's lying on his back, head resting on the numerous pillows of his bed. He isn't looking at her, his pained gaze vacant, somewhere far away from this hotel room.

"At first, I felt guilty - the first few times. But after a while, it didn't matter anymore. I just did it, and I didn't think of her. And yes, it was straightforward - what did you call it? Transactional. I regret it now."

Ulana needs him to stop talking about this, very aware that she's utterly incapable of offering any kind of support for a confession of this magnitude. What does he want her to say? What _ can _ she say? It's hardly an unusual tale. Most men she's met cheat on their wives.

"But I had a rule, of sorts," he adds. "She was the only one I ever ate out," he says, and finally meets Ulana's gaze.

She feels her heart stop.

"Oh," she says. "Boris. Fuck, I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked if I'd known..."

"It's fine. Just get dressed," he says. "Go to Moscow."

Is he... kicking her out of his room? Too disgusted at himself to look at her any longer? This wasn't supposed to hurt this much. Ulana retrieves her clothes, still a little stunned. It's better this way, she tells herself. It's better to part on a sour note so that this chapter can be closed. A case of existential anguish in the face of a nuclear disaster, nothing more. As she pulls up her panties she notices he's left some marks where he was holding her thighs, angry red and in the shape of his fingers. When she finishes dressing, she becomes aware of his gaze on her, now that he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his flaccid cock between his legs. He doesn't look angry, or upset. He only wears his worried, somewhat morose usual face. Has she read him wrong all along?

"I do wish you weren't leaving," he says, and it's absurd how this small flicker of hope rises in her. "You may think he doesn't want you, but he does need you."

Ah, yes. Valery. The invisible participant in this bizarre charade between them. If he suspects anything about them yet, he hasn't said a word. Ulana has the notion that he wouldn't, even if he did.

"He needs me more where I'll be," she says, dryly. "I'll be his eyes where he can't see."

"Still, he shouldn't do this alone."

She walks back to the bed until she's in front of him. She leans down to be at eye level with Boris and rests a hand on his bare thigh.

"He won't be alone," she says. "He'll be with you."

Boris offers her a grimace that she guesses is supposed to be a smile. Valery will stay with Boris, who will ground him and bend over backwards to help him, instead of arguing with him and questioning his every decision like she would. No wonder he'd prefer to stay with him. In his place, Ulana would send herself away too. And if... If Valery had to choose between one of them to stay with him, not just in Pripyat but _ forever_, Ulana can vaguely guess he'd choose Boris too, and not her - doe-eyed or not when he talks to her. She doesn't know or like where this thought comes from. This, too, hurts more than it was supposed to.

"Thank you," Boris says.

Thank you for what? For sex? Should she feel insulted? But he grabs her face to press a kiss to her lips. A soft kiss - the softest one they've shared so far, like he might kiss a sweetheart, or an old time lover. Ulana scolds herself for feeling butterflies.

"Goodnight," she tells him, and can't resist stroking his cheek before she turns and leaves. 

It occurs to her then that instead of parting on a sour note, this suspiciously felt like parting on a sweet one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Sleepless Malice and tenar-of-atuan for some brainstorming/plot unfucking for this chapter. 
> 
> The ot3 baiting will stop next chapter, apologies for dragging it this long. Chapter 5 will move things forward significantly, I promise.
> 
> Please please let me know if you're still reading and enjoying this! Fandom has been quiet of late in my neck of the woods.

* * *

The hotel is crummy and depressing. Of all the hotels in Moscow, what on earth would make her choose such a ghastly place to stay, Boris wonders, as he handwaves the receptionist's concerns and climbs his way to the third floor where she's staying. The darkened, vaguely smelly set of stairs only adds to his irritation of tonight. He'd thought he'd have to fight with Charkov to rescue Ulana from the detention center, a fight so tedious he'd already ran through it in his head, enough to put him in a foul mood in anticipation. Valery inadvertently spared him the confrontation, but the preemptive anger still lingers. He knocks on her door loudly - too loudly, he realizes too late.

It's not Ulana who answers the door.

It's Valery.

Valery, with his tie loosened, looking just as shocked to see him there as Boris feels. It makes sense, of course: he went to free Ulana from the detention center, while Boris stayed at the Kremlin to sign some urgent paperwork related to the titanic clean-up operation ahead of them. So Valery must have picked her up and dropped her off at her hotel. Perfectly logical. What he can't wrap his head around is why Valery is in her room, making himself cozy - and rather than doe-eyed like Ulana describes him, looking more like a deer caught in the headlights. Boris hazards a glance inside the room, wondering if she's in there, perhaps on the bed, and the thought of it... It's not quite anger, but violent disappointment.

"She's here," Valery says at last. "In the shower. She asked me to stay."

Ah, yes, the shower is running. Boris stares at him. Now that Valery has offered an explanation for his presence here, he must give one himself, one that isn't '_I was worried about her _', preferably. He makes an impatient sound.

"There's some paperwork she still needs to sign," he lies, gruffly.

Valery doesn't challenge this - why would he? He opens the door wider to let him in. Boris takes in the even uglier bedroom, the small bed, and Ulana's clothes haphazardly thrown all over the place - everywhere, it seems, but inside the dresser where she could have hung them. He also sees Valery's coat resting on the lone chair of the room. It strikes him as out of place among her things, and he feels frankly annoyed.

"How is she?" he asks.

"Fine," Valery says, and sits on the chair leaving Boris to stand. "A little rattled, that's all."

It's the first time, aside from that hushed conversation in the hallway of the Kremlin, that they've spoken about Ulana, the two of them. Boris doesn't like the way Valery is looking up at him, as if searching for answers on his face, so he glances away - walks towards the window with his hands firmly in the pockets of his trousers. Legasov has never let on that he suspects anything about what went on between them in Pripyat. (The meeting room was scrubbed clean that morning and smelled only of detergent. The second night... well, they were mostly quiet.) But then again, what would he say? How would he say it? It's not like they have time to be idle enough to gossip about women. But now he's here, at her request apparently, and he doesn't seem keen to leave. 

Boris doesn't know what bothers him the most about the scenario: that Valery would stay with Ulana, or that Ulana would ask him to. He feels like an old fool. He'll see that she's indeed fine, yell at her for being stupid after he warned her not to, and then he will leave them be. 

The shower stops running. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Legasov patting his pockets for a cigarette but seems to find nothing, and ends up fiddling with his hands nervously. Is he expecting to get laid tonight? Is he already aroused in anticipation, maybe half hard where he's sitting? Boris forbids himself to look in his direction.

"I spoke to General Tarakanov personally," he says, to fill the intolerable silence. He isn't imagining it, is he? There's an awkwardness in the room that doesn't come from Valery alone. "He'll do all that he can to get us more men. He's good. Trustworthy."

"Oh, good," Valery says, blandly, with the same resigned indifference that he receives every attempt of Boris to give him good news. The familiar disappointment stings somewhere deep. Screw him: Boris will overstay his welcome - if he does have it.

Ulana emerges out of the water-closet a moment later, wrapped in a grey bathrobe that's seen better days but that covers everything it should, modestly. But Boris winces when he notices it's so worn-out it leaves little to the imagination about her body. She's drying her hair with a towel even as she steps out. 

"Oh," she says when she sees him there.

He definitely doesn't imagine the brief relief that goes through her. Ulana has dark circles under her eyes, and fear still lingers in her gaze, but other than that she looks none worse for the wear. Happy to see him, even. Boris offers a small smile.

"What's this, then?" she asks, sitting on the bed so that she's facing both of them.

He had meant to yell at her, but can't bring himself to. Valery glances at him, and yes, maybe Boris should leave after all.

"Some paperwork," he says, deliberately vague. "It can wait until tomorrow. You should probably rest."

"No, I can look at it," she says.

"I can wait until you're done," Valery says, not standing from his chair, and he sounds like a crabby child when he adds, "Unless you want me to leave?"

Boris knows that tone and has come to dread it. Legasov's impatience always makes him desperate to correct whatever it is that has displeased him, however harebrained his outrage might be. In this case, what has displeased him is Boris. He shuffles forward, eyeing the door. But Ulana too seems on the edge after hearing that tone, and she stands to step closer to him, arms extended.

"Valera," she says. Boris didn't know they were on such familiar terms. "Thank you for not leaving me, earlier. I don't think I could have showered in peace if I thought I was alone in the hotel. But Shcherbina is here now. I'll be alright." 

"And when he leaves?" Valery asks pointedly, as he stands.

Boris resists the urge to exchange a glance with Ulana, because if he does, it'll be too obvious that they've fucked, even though he has no particular intention of spending the night in this ghastly hotel. So she was afraid, then: afraid of staying alone. He remembers how proud she looked when she said she wouldn't cry to him about anything. Boris tightens his fists, wishing he could make Charkov pay for this, immediately and expediently. 

"Then I'll go to sleep, and I'll be fine," Ulana says.

Valery's eyes are too expressive under his thick glasses. He deserves better than this. No one should ever hurt him, and least of all Boris.

"I'll return in the morning," Boris declares, and moves briskly towards the door.

"No," Ulana says, extending an arm towards him to stop him, and Boris hasn't been on the receiving end of such a commanding tone since his army days. He stops in his tracks.

"I see," Valery says.

He slipped his hands in his pockets when he stood, but now he takes them out, hesitantly, as if he didn't know what to do with them. He takes an abrupt step forward and pulls Ulana into a hug. Boris nearly gasps at the sight. How tightly he holds her. He can see one of Legasov's hands on her back, on the ugly bathrobe, holding her so closely he rumples the fabric a little. And she's so scantily dressed. Boris feels like he should avert his gaze, but he finds that he cannot. When Valery pulls back, he leans down to press a quick kiss to Ulana's forehead. 

"Please," he says, leaning to be at eye level with her. "Don't scare us like this again."

He glances at Boris, who startles at how effortlessly Valery included him in this 'us'. He couldn't feel more removed from them just now, like an awkward third wheel that's just witnessed something it shouldn't. Ulana only nods and walks him to the door of her room, closing it after bidding him a goodnight.

"I don't have any paperwork," Boris says as soon as she closes the door. "If you'd rather stay with him - tell me. He's still in the hallway. I'll stop him, and he can stay, if that's what you prefer. _ Who _ you'd prefer."

He hates this, having to admit the possibility of her preferring another, even though that other is Valery. It feels like an eternity until she answers, but it can't be more than a second or two.

"Boris," Ulana says, her back still pressed to the door. "Please, stay."

"Really?" He doesn't know why he insists. "It feels like I just walked into the middle of something."

"Don't do this," she says in a warning tone, and finally steps away from the door.

"I told you not to be stupid," he tells her, transferring his frustration to the real reason for this visit. "And what did you do? You got yourself arrested."

"I know," she says, impatiently.

"I warned you," he goes on. "And still you went, thick-headed like you are..."

"Boris!" She raises her voice. "I _ know _! Don't scold me. Not tonight."

It takes him by surprise when she presses against him, and he can't help comparing this hug with Valery's. She's clinging to him harder, it seems, and he envelopes her with his arms as if shielding her from the world. She's barefoot, and the height difference between them means she can nestle just under his chin. Her hair is still wet. Boris feels his anger thawing, only a little. He takes a step back without letting go of her, to look into her eyes. She may be upset, but there's still a hint of defiance in her gaze: _ Go on, pity me, if you dare_.

"Did they hurt you?" he asks dryly, too familiar with some of the KGB less savory interrogation tactics. Ulana shakes her head no. "Did they touch you?" he insists.

"No," Ulana says. She closes her eyes. "But I was sure that they would. There was a blond agent. I felt it was only a matter of time."

"You have Valery to thank for how quickly he got you out."

"Valery?" she repeats, and he tells her what went on with Charkov, and the promise Valery had to make for her freedom. She bites her lip. "I made him leave, and I really should have thanked him," she says, dejected.

Boris wonders if those thanks involved sexual favors, then feels wretched for that thought. Legasov would never expect this. And yet... What _ did _ he walk into? What did he disrupt?

"You still can, tomorrow. We're not due to depart until noon," he tells her, and lets go of her. "Ask him to breakfast."

Ulana sighs as she steps away from him and starts rummaging into the unspeakable mess that is her suitcase to extract a pair of panties, the frumpy ones, and an even more appalling nightgown. Boris rolls his eyes inwardly, and wonders how angry she'd be if he happened to buy her a full wardrobe. He should turn away or avert his gaze, but instead looks at her frankly as she changes into her night clothes, enjoying the glimpse of her bare breasts.

"Will you stay?" she asks, as she makes herself comfortable on the bed.

"What, here?" Boris asks, bewildered. 

"Just so we're clear, I'm not in the mood for sex. But I'd like it if you stayed," she says, and there's a touch of desperation in her tone that stuns him all over again. She looks... scared.

"To sleep? In _ this _ room?" he insists, shuddering at the thought of the state of those bedsheets.

"Look, what if they come back?" Her voice comes out strangled, and Boris guesses the 'and take me away again?' that she doesn't say. There's an unfamiliar tameness in her gaze.

"No one will come back," he tells her, forcefully. "I just told you: you're safe now, thanks to Valery. And they know you're mine now." That came out more possessive than he intended. Boris amends, "Ours. In our team. I made that very clear. They wouldn't go so overtly after you now. After my people."

Ulana shakes her head, not quite believing him. "They already did."

"Well, they won't again."

"Am I going to have to beg you? I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

"So what do you want me to do? Sleep next to you and cuddle with you?" he asks, disbelieving. "Legasov would be better suited for this."

He _ understands _ the moment he says it. That's why she was asking Valery to stay. 

"He's gone now," Ulana says, and raises an emphatic eyebrow. "You scared him away. So you could say you owe me one."

"_I _scared him away?" Boris repeats. "I hardly said a word to him."

"I don't know if you realize how physically imposing you can be," she says with a smirk. "When I came out of the shower you looked so tense, like a wolf ready to snap its prey's neck."

Boris scoffs and raises an eyebrow at her. He sits on the corner of the bed, close to her feet.

"My prey, you say?" he says, dropping his voice. "Are you or are you not in the mood for sex?"

She's delicious - the way she blushes and yet lifts her chin in defiance.

"I'm not," she tells him. "But Legasov was your prey, not me."

"I didn't expect to find him here, that's all. I didn't mean to _ attack _ him, if that's what you're joking about." He frowns. "And I came here expecting nothing from you. I only wanted to see how badly they treated you."

"Sorry to disappoint. Now will you stay? I've asked you three times."

Boris sighs in disgust. Even if he could overlook her terrible mess and the ghastly furniture of the bedroom, the bed looks more like a hotbed for bedbugs, syphilis, and who knows what other unspeakable things. The amorphous pillows will likely offer no support whatsoever for the head. And the bed sheets - discolored, worn-out: he runs a hesitant hand on them and they feel raspy to the touch. What a nightmare.

"Get dressed," he tells her. "We'll go to my house and sleep in a proper bed."

It looks as if she considers it for a moment, but she glances at the monstrous mess in her room. Good grief, it would likely take her hours to find something to wear, let alone to pack. And she does look all cozened up in her shapeless nightgown under the raspy covers. She shakes her head no.

"Infuriating woman," Boris mutters and stands up to inspect the dresser. _ If _ he decides to stay, he won't leave his suit on a chair like a barbarian.

He marks a pause when he opens it. It isn't empty, like he imagined. She has hung the two dresses he bought for her, the blue and the green one, instead of throwing them somewhere like the rest of her crumpled clothes that litter the room. It doesn't even look like they'd need ironing. It softens Boris, somehow. It's a very sweet feeling, entirely unexpected. He shoulders off his suit jacket and hangs it next to her dresses in silence, then does the same to his white shirt and tie. He sits on the chair to undo his shoes. Ulana is watching him from the bed, with an interest he isn't used to be the recipient of.

"What?" he grumbles, as he slides his trousers down.

"You're a kinder man than you let on," she says, but as ever, she seems to be making fun of him.

"Let's not make this a habit," he warns her as he hangs the trousers in the dresser too. 

"Heavens no," she says, and laughs. "I'm embarrassed enough that I had to ask. Three times!"

Boris feels like walking over and kissing her mouth, but disappearing in the bathroom in his undershirt and briefs is the more sensible option.

He'll remove her from this hotel first thing in the morning, he decides as he freshens up for the night. There are residences fit for foreign visitors, for diplomats, for visiting scientists: she'll lack for nothing there. And he'll assign someone to look after her. His office is full of idle clerks, eager to please him: one of them can keep an eye on her and see that she doesn't get into trouble, or rather, that trouble doesn't follow her. All of this happened because she and Valery thought they were smarter than the system, that their brains conferred them immunity, that they could play spies against the KGB. That makes him suitably angry when he emerges from the bathroom, enough to mutter under his breath as he undoes his side of the raspy covers and slips in there next to her. 

The bed isn't very large. Boris can feel her pressed against his arm, her skin colder than he'd expect. There's still light in the room after she turns off the bedside lamp: the curtains are incredibly thin and let through the streetlights, bright as day. Boris sighs loudly.

"I shouldn't have come," he says.

"I'm glad you did," Ulana says, a little sleepily already. "Valery would have been a mistake."

Boris turns those words in his head. He opens his mouth to ask her, shuts it, and then decides to go for it anyway, sleep be damned. She brought it up first.

"I have to ask. If Legasov had stayed. Would you have slept with him?"

"Yes," she says. "I'd have asked him to sleep here."

"No," Boris says, impatiently. "I mean, would you have fucked him?"

He turns to look at her, the room bright enough to see her clearly. Ulana rolls so that she's on her side, facing him.

"Yes, if he had wanted," she says. "Does that offend you?"

Boris doesn't answer. 'Offend' is not the right word. It would... _ displease _ him, rather. But likely not enough to make a scene.

"Would you prefer if I were all yours?" Ulana insists, and there's an edge of teasing in her voice.

He ignores how that thought makes his mouth go dry to answer, "It isn't any of my business what you do. Especially after what I told you about myself."

He thinks, _ I just wish you weren't doing it with him_, but can't make himself voice that thought. Stupidly, he managed to sound irascible when he was aiming for indifference. Ulana touches his arm, softly.

"Wouldn't you do the same if you were in my place, though?"

"What do you mean?"

"If Valery were in your room, in your bed, ready and willing to fuck you, wouldn't you go through with it?"

His mind draws a blank. The question feels foreign, ludicrous, as if she asked him if he'd like to eat a slice of moon with Gorbachev. When he regains his senses, it's anger that comes back, a wounded, smarting fury. He yanks his arm away from her, half-sitting up on his side of the bed. 

"What on earth are you insinuating, you... you, filthy, depraved... crooked woman?" he growls.

"Let's do away with the epithets, shall we?" She doesn't look offended in the least, and there's that stubborn glimmer in her eyes. "It's a simple question, I believe. Easy to understand. Would you have sex with Valery, if you had the chance?"

"Are you deliberately trying to insult me into leaving? Whatever gave you the right, the impression that you can ask me this? I don't have sex with men!"

"You're in love with one, though. Or at least, you're halfway there already."

It's as if the world stops revolving for one long, excruciating minute. Boris lies there in bed, letting her words wash through him like a bucket of freezing water.

"I'm not," he manages to say.

"I've seen the way you look at him," Ulana says, very gently. "Like he hung over the moon. You'd move heaven and earth for him - for a man you met ten days ago. He too is _ yours_. Isn't he?"

"I don't know," Boris says, stuttering a little. 

He's afraid all of a sudden, afraid that she's right. But love doesn't work this way, does it. And _can _ sex happen, to begin with? Between two men, constantly watched and listened to by the KGB? He doesn't know. He doesn't think... His mind panics at the possibility. He's considering jumping off the bed, getting dressed, and disappearing somewhere where her words can't reach him, but she touches his cheek, a caress so gentle he can only lie there in stunned silence.

"I can't say I blame you," she says, wistfully. "He's very easy to fall in love with."

Boris clings to this bit of information to draw attention away from him. "Are _ you _ in love with him?"

"Not yet," she whispers. "But if he'd stayed tonight... Sometimes I think Valery is like Pandora's box for feelings. Best to leave that shut."

So Ulana sent him away because she was afraid of falling in love? Boris can understand that, being afraid, being so afraid that it becomes unthinkable. (Impossible. Forbidden.) If Valery had stayed, he and Ulana would likely be having sex right now, in this very bed. Maybe the moment she stepped out from the shower, Legasov could have opened her bathrobe and then.. And then they'd fall in love, the two of them, or at least Valery would. He doesn't strike Boris as the kind of man to fuck someone and not _ mean _ it - to make love to them instead of having sex. Unlike him, and apparently Ulana. Neither of them is worthy of him. He closes his eyes, disturbed by the path his thoughts are taking. 

"I'm not blind," she adds. "I know you had him on your mind whenever you fucked me." 

This damned woman and her insidious fantasies, wrapping him around her little finger and making him question himself. Yes, he thought of Valery. But it doesn't mean he's in love with Valery.

"Is it so hard to believe I enjoyed _ you _?" he grumbles. 

She said she didn't want anything tonight, but he only has to reach, really, to fondle her breasts over the nightgown. He gives her a soft squeeze and finds her nipples hard. She gasps. 

"I believe you," Ulana says, and grabs his hand to stop him. "But I also think you'd enjoy Valery, if you could." She lets out a short laugh as he tries to wrestle his hand back. "We're both stupid. We should have asked him to stay tonight."

It's less oppressive on his chest, somehow, if they're laughing about it. Boris does not have many reasons to smile these days - and when he does, Valery is quick to smother them down.

"He wouldn't fit on this bed," he says, lightly, and as soon as he manages to free his hand from her grasp, hers is on his crotch, cupping him. He isn't hard yet, and he isn't sure he'll manage to be, but he lets her hold him, enjoying the obvious intimacy of the gesture.

"He would fit if you sat in the chair," Ulana whispers. "Watching us. Would you like that?"

His cock stirs with interest - Boris isn't sure what about, her hand on it, or the image of them together.

"Maybe," he says, his voice raspy. He rolls on the bed to cover her with his weight. "I thought you didn't want sex tonight."

"You and me, in a bed, talking about Valery? That was never going to be platonic," she answers with a smirk, and he kisses her on the lips.

"I do want _ you_," he says, against her mouth. "Your tits, and your cunt, and all of you."

"And?" she asks, pointedly.

He can't make himself say it. He slides a hand under the nightgown to lift it up as he fondles her breasts more roughly. "It's wrong to talk of this," he scolds. "It's illegal."

"Oh dear. How very depraved. Do you want me to stop talking?"

"God, yes, you never shut up," he says, biting at her lips.

"You'd have to see him naked," she insists as she strokes him more. "You'd see his cock, hard, as he entered me."

"Shut up," Boris tells her. He slides a hand inside her frumpy panties to find her wet.

"You could join us, after a while. To fuck my mouth. Or his."

"Shut up!"

There's something juvenile in grinding to full hardness into her hand like this, while he rubs her with the other inside her panties - but also something lazy, cozy almost, in the way they're with each other just now, with Ulana's ragged breath warm against his lips._ Comfortable_.

"Do you think he'd say yes?" he whispers, terrified and yet impossibly aroused to be saying this out loud.

Ulana opens her eyes wide. "With you? _ Yes_. But I'm not sure he's one to share."

"What makes you think _ I _ am?" Boris growls, and pulls her panties down.

Her gasp when he enters her sounds puzzled, surprised. And yet he goes at it slowly, with short, shallow thrusts at first. She holds on to his shoulders as he slides into her fully - this kind of paced lovemaking at odds with the sordid little hotel where the bedsheets start coming off from the mattress the more he drags her up and down against the shapeless pillows. It would be a lie to say he isn't enjoying _ her _ \- her wet, tight cunt pulsing down on his cock and her soft little bites on lips. But it would also be a lie to say he isn't thinking of what she said, but in reverse: Valery in the chair, watching them fuck, his hard cock out of his pants as he touches himself to orgasm. It's easier, maybe, to imagine him like this - removed from them but still there. Away from her. Boris leans down enough to whisper in her ear.

"Ulana," he says, and she moans into his shoulder. He slips out of her just in time to come all over her belly. "My Ulana."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pottedmusic is entirely to blame for the second part of this chapter with her help on Soviet restaurants - thanks! And thank you Sleepless Malice, again, for your bad influence re: Ulana seeing where Boris lives.
> 
> Starts immediately after last chapter.

* * *

Ulana awakens the next morning because the curtains let the sunlight through, and also because Boris is barking orders into the phone of her room. She groans and covers her head with a pillow to make both the light and the noise go away - quite unsuccessfully. A glance at her watch on the bedside table informs her it's around 6:35 in the morning, and screw him, she hasn't had a good night's sleep in days.

"Yes, send the car at 7 sharp," Boris says and hangs up the phone, startling her enough to peek out from under the pillow. He's sitting at the desk of the room, fully dressed like the day before, yet everything he's wearing looks unbecomingly creased after spending a night on the dresser.

But the room. Her stuff. Where is everything?

"Did you go through my things?" she asks, all sleep gone, sitting up on the bed from the shock.

"I packed for you, yes," Boris says, sounding annoyed. "How can you be so damned messy? I found socks under the bed. Do you even wear socks?"

"I do wear socks and you, you had no right to go through my things!"

"You heard me on the phone. The car will be here at 7. Hurry up and get ready now."

"To go where?" Ulana asks, wavering between astonishment and outrage that he's giving her orders like this.

"I found you a spot in one of the official residences for visiting scientists on the Embankment. You'll be treated better there. With respect. The food is good, I hear. Better than here, I can only imagine."

"An official residence," she repeats, still baffled. "For _ me_?"

"As of today you're working for the Central Committee. Under me. Well, as soon as we both sign the paperwork. They'll be bringing it with the car. At seven sharp!" he adds, rising his voice to startle her into action. 

"I don't know if I should thank you or tell you to fuck off," she mutters, kicking off the covers. 

"What you should do is get ready," he sneers.

Her belly is still sticky and gross, thanks to him, so she'll probably need a quick shower. She does her best to rinse off quickly, to brush her teeth, to make her hair less messy, but it's still ten to seven when she steps out of the bathroom - in nothing but a towel, because he already packed the bathrobe, the fucker. He's pacing back and forth in the room, evidently impatient.

"I picked out your clothes for you," he says, as if that were the most normal thing in the world, and gestures towards the unmade bed.

The green dress.

Oh, fuck no.

"Boris, this needs to stop right now. You can't decide what I wear."

"Why not?" he says, with a shrug. "It's the only thing, along with the blue one, that wasn't rumpled to oblivion in the disaster that is your suitcase."

"Because it's controlling and patronizing and borderline insulting," Ulana fires back. "I'm not a thing for you to dress as you like! I can decide for myself. I'll dress however I want."

"So what do you want to do? Unpack the whole suitcase and pick one of your hideous skirts? We only have five minutes until the driver is here."

"Yes, I want to unpack the suitcase and fuck your driver, he can wait until I'm ready. Isn't that what he's hired for?"

Boris steps towards her, his glare smoldering her right where she stands. Ulana called him physically imposing the night before, and she's reminded of it more than ever as he stands in front of her, the height difference staggering. She's wearing nothing but a towel, her brain supplies unhelpfully, and he could easily pick her up and manhandle her and where on earth did that thought come from and why is it so infuriatingly arousing? She always reacts so strongly to him, it's distracting and frankly debilitating. Still, she isn't cowed by him, and she looks straight into his eyes as he nears her, though she holds on to her towel harder. 

He says nothing, apparently thinking he can make her bend to his will with only his glare, and the worst is that it may be working.

"Why do you care so much about what I wear?" she deflects, her voice not as steady as she'd like.

"You're gorgeous, Ulana," he says, hoarsely. "If you were my wife, I'd want every man in the room to be aware of how beautiful you are."

Ulana can think of four or five things to reply to such a sexist statement, and yet all she can focus on is the 'if you were my wife' part, sending shivers down her spine and warming her body from head to toe, with a most inappropriate quiver between her legs.

"I'm not, though," she forces herself to say, masking (unsuccessfully, perhaps) how flustered she feels with a touch of coldness. "Your wife. I'm not your wife. You do know that, don't you? I'm only your colleague. Entirely by accident, I may add."

"Only my colleague?" There's a flash of hurt in his blue eyes. "Hm." He makes a gesture with his hand and turns his back on her. "Of course I know you're not my wife. Just get dressed, I don't care what you wear. I'll wait downstairs in the car."

He doesn't quite slam the door on his way out, but he does close it with unnecessary force. Shit. Fuck. Ulana sits on the edge of the bed, stunned by what just happened. She _ hurt _ him. She meant to, of course, but not this much. She grabs the dress from the bed - not quite green, just matching her eyes. _ You can't possibly fault him for gifting it to you_, Marfa said then. She seemed to think they were together. But all this talk about Valery...? His embarrassed whispers about him the night before? Ulana definitely didn't imagine that. 

Who says things like 'if you were my wife' to win an argument! She holds the dress tighter, more hesitantly, and fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, because he picked out her underwear as well. Ulana gives in and gets dressed in a hurry, anxious to _ fix _ this in some way, and she scolds herself for having fought with him when she has to drag the heavy suitcase all the way down the stairs herself.

The black car is waiting with the engine running, and the driver, a young man with a bland face, gets out promptly to help her with the suitcase, at least. Boris is sitting in the backseat when she gets in, reading a document. He doesn't spare a glance in her direction even though she sits next to him. Ah, the cold shoulder it is.

"Boris," she says, and puts a hand on his thigh when the car gets moving. "Forgive me?"

In any other circumstances, she'd spit out the words with resentment at having to say it. But it strikes her, no soon she has spoken, that she really does care about his reaction. Boris glances at her and smiles - a real smile, not a wry smirk or a grimace. He takes her hand and brings it to his lips to kiss it. 

"I was an oaf. But thank you for wearing it," he says, and sounds like a boy who's just been given a present. "You've just made my day, you look amazing."

The second kiss he presses to her hand more risqué - more of a lick, really. Ulana takes in a deep breath and pulls her hand away.

"We're going to my house first," he says. "I need to change clothes for the day. Here, sign this."

He hands her the document he was reading, with a very imposing official header. Ulana Yuriyvna Khomyuk, blah blah, blah, exceptional nuclear physicist (_who wrote this_?), esteemed collaborator of the Chernobyl Commission etc. etc. henceforth considered a distinguished worker of the Central Committee under Comrade Deputy Chairman Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina, with all privileges and responsibilities blah blah blah. As she signs at the bottom of the page, she can't help thinking of the wording of a marriage certificate. Goddamned Boris, why did he have to talk about wives. She hands it back to him.

"At least we didn't completely lie to Valery about the paperwork, then."

"Hm," Boris answers, and signs at the bottom as well.

Ulana knew the Government elite were entitled to special apartments near the Kremlin, but she is entirely unprepared for the kind of luxury that awaits her when they step out of the car and enter the building. The flat itself in an entire unit, unconnected to those in the rest of the block, so that the entrance to Boris's apartment is only his. Inside, a grand set of stairs, the kind one might read in the work of 19th century authors, leads to the upper levels. The flat has _ several _ levels, just for one family. In times of yore, the upper floors were likely servant quarters, while the bottom were the receiving rooms but everything has, naturally, been renovated to modern standards. Ulana stands there at the bottom of the stairs, paralyzed by a foreign sense of inadequacy, and vaguely relieved to be wearing her green dress to be here in this place.

Boris stops midway up the stairs, only noticing her discomfiture just then.

"Kitchen's to the left," he tells her briefly. "Make breakfast. I'll be only 20 minutes."

And then he disappears upstairs, leaving Ulana just as stunned. Make breakfast, he says! Screw him. She heads to the right out of spite, finding the sitting room instead. But once she steps in there, the impression of not belonging grows even larger. 

Someone decorated this living room with utmost care, tastefully coordinating the colors of the furniture with the curtains, the cushions of the divans, and even the art on the walls. Boris may fuss about clothing, but Ulana can recognize a woman's touch in here - his late wife, undoubtedly. She stands there by the doorway for a moment, hesitating to trespass into what she acknowledges as another woman's territory, then calls herself silly. She takes a few wavering steps. No, there's no way she's going to sit anywhere in this room and feel comfortable. Ulana stops before a beautiful console table decorated with jewelled pysanky, but also with family photos in black and white.

So this is Sonya. Boris's first wife.

She's very beautiful. Blonde, exquisitely dressed in all the pictures, smiling straight at the camera with a warm smile. 

In one of them, she and a younger Boris are dressed up to the nines, likely for a party, and she leans on the arm he offers with affection as she glances up at him. He's looking at her, too. No one could see this picture and claim they did not love each other. Ulana swallows, her throat a little tight at the sight. There are children in the other pictures, two sons and a daughter. They all look like Sonya, especially the girl. In some sort of pastoral setting, likely their dacha, Sonya holds the youngest in her arms, and Boris has the girl up on his shoulders while he holds the other boy's hand. He looks so much younger, Ulana hardly recognizes him - and not just physically. He looks like a different person entirely, fatherly. _ Happy_.

Oh, she shouldn't have looked at this. Ulana steps away from the table, sad and pained without a clear reason. What happened, she wonders. How did she die, when did she die, how much does Boris miss her? What about the children, do they live in Moscow? Do they talk to Boris often? Do they know their father is involved in the deadliest cleanup operation on Earth, or are they as in the dark as Ulana's own children?

She flees the sitting room and finds her way to the kitchen, somehow.

But this too, is Sonya's territory. The kitchen is larger than Ulana's living room at home, and the fine pans... the appliances... These aren't Soviet-made. They look German, or perhaps even French. Even the utensils - the soup spoons, the carving knives, the frying spatulas - good Lord, what are they made out of? Ulana gawks at them, not even daring to touch them. It strikes her, belatedly, that everything in this house is immaculately tidy: the stairs, the living room, this kitchen. It's almost a museum, as if no people lived here, or ever did live here. Boris can't spend much time here because of his job to begin with, but the flat seems to have a peculiarity of always having looked like this. He must have people to clean it for him, Ulana realizes, her mind boggling at the slogans of Exploitation of Man by Man that apparently do not apply to the high-ranking members of the government elite. Even the fridge has been freshly furnished: someone knew Boris would be in Moscow for a night and filled it with the kind of things he likes. This too feels too intrusive, too intimate like the family pictures, seeing the bottles of kefir and the packs of fresh sausage. Ulana shuts the fridge.

Bread. There is bread on the counter. Bread is easy. She can deal with bread. She thinks of making tea, but she can't locate an obvious kettle, and while she looks for it she finds green coffee beans, ready to be roasted. Not the ordinary Indian tin powder coffee - actual coffee beans. Ulana sinks in one of the kitchen chairs, overwhelmed by this kind of luxury, and forgets about the bread.

Boris finds her like this, a little out of it, as he steps into the kitchen with his usual military bearing. He's wearing a navy suit with a new tie, striped like he prefers. He smells so good, freshly showered and shaved. Ulana perks up a little from the chair where she's slumped.

"What, no breakfast?" he asks with some irritation as he nears her. "Of course. You think cooking for a man is beneath you."

"It crossed my mind, yes!" Ulana can't help laughing. "Boris, I did try. But I'm afraid I need another kind of doctorate to be allowed in your kitchen."

Boris chuckles at this and leans down to rest his arms on the chair, trapping her there. He kisses her lips, very lightly, and she only feels embarrassed that he's kissing her in his kitchen, in his flat where she's but an intruder.

"Forget that," he says, staying very close to her face. "We'll go somewhere to eat."

"To eat breakfast?" she asks, not understanding. "Like a canteen?"

"A restaurant. I know a place." He takes a step back. "Do you still want to ask Valery to breakfast?" 

Oh, right. Boris suggested that the night before, to thank Valery for getting her out of prison. It's a good idea in theory, and Ulana does want to see him and thank him personally, but after the way she sent him away, to have sex with Boris to add insult to injury, it feels more like a mockery than a thoughtful gesture. Another objection crosses her mind, one that feels suspiciously like jealousy: Boris seems keener than her to see Valery. 

"You spoke of not being one to share last night," she answers, unable to keep the possessiveness from her tone. They both said a lot of nonsense in bed, but now, in the clear light of day, as she sees Boris in front of her and in his house with the mementos of the life he once had, she may not be as on board as she imagined herself to be with this incestuous little triangle. "I'm starting to think I'm not one either."

Boris raises both eyebrows. "It's just breakfast. I'm not courting the man, for heaven's sake."

"Aren't you?"

"That's rich coming from the one who was ready to sleep with him if I hadn't shown up."

To throw that in her face, now! But he's right, isn't he. Boris steps away from her before she can think of something to fire back, pacing a little until he stops in front of the fridge. He opens it absentmindedly and grabs the kefir bottle, but doesn't do anything with it.

"Can we make a deal?" he asks, turning towards her again, bottle still in hand.

"What deal?" she asks, still angry.

"I won't do anything with him if you won't do anything either."

She snorts. "Is that a promise you can keep? You're going to likely spend months with him, working close together, getting drunk together. Being the only one he talks to." 

She almost adds, '_And it's not like you have a stellar record for being monogamous, either _' but it feels crass to say it in Sonya's kitchen. In Sonya's house.

Something of it must show on her face, however, because Boris looks ashamed and breaks eye contact. Is it even a fair deal? If Boris loves Valery like she suspects, does she have a right to meddle? She'd resent Boris for asking this if the roles were reversed - if she were in love with Valery. 

"You worry about something impossible," Boris says, sounding dejected. "A fantasy. Valery can never happen in the real world."

What does that mean? That Ulana is second best? _ Of course you are_, a little voice says in her head. She's the only realistic possibility, so Boris, just as practical as her, simply reached for it and took it. It stings, unexpectedly.

"But if it does?" she insists, keeping her head high to mask her pain.

He puts the kefir on the counter and comes back to Ulana, squatting in front of her. It reminds her of the time he helped her put on the shoes she's wearing just now, and she blushes at the memory. Boris rests his hands on her thighs, and their warmth can still be felt through through the fine fabric of the dress.

"It's a deal I intend to keep," he says. "But I won't hide it from you if I break it."

That seems fair. Ulana gives him a brief nod. He pulls himself forward to kiss her, more thoroughly this time, using his tongue as if to seal the deal. It's a sweet kiss. Ulana tilts her head and cups Boris's freshly shaven cheek. For a brief moment, there's an illusion of a simpler, happier life: discussing what to eat for breakfast, kissing in the kitchen before starting their day, Boris's hands squeezing her thighs like they belong there. It feels so easy. It's frightening. Ulana pulls back, a little flustered. Boris looks at her for a moment too long, then straightens.

"I'll call him," he says, and makes his way to the next room.

Ulana puts the kefir bottle back in the fridge, because it really does look out of sorts in the museum-kitchen, while she listens to the one-sided conversation.

"Valery! Were you awake? Ah. Have you had breakfast? Good, then, do you want to join me to eat? Yes, I will pick you up shortly. Wear a tie. No, not the blue suit, I'm sick of seeing you in that thing. Yes, that will be fine. See you soon."

Ulana can't help snickering. At least she's not the only one on the receiving end of Boris's controlling nature. But she does vaguely resent how quickly Valery agreed to what Boris instructed he wear.

  


* * *

  


They make a strange trio in this restaurant, Boris at ease and mellow, while Valery and Ulana remain wide-eyed and bemused. Not even Valery, who lives in Moscow and belongs to the Party, seemed to be aware that this kind of establishment existed. 'Are we allowed in here?' he asked, and Boris waved away his concerns: as a member of the Party elite, _ he _ was allowed in, therefore his guests were. The large dining-room has chandeliers hanging from the artfully decorated roof, and the chairs are red velvet and gold. The table is round, thankfully, because Ulana did not want to go through the awkwardness of deciding how to sit: she and Boris as a unit, facing Valery? She and Valery together, possibly annoying Boris? Boris and Valery for her to observe without rolling her eyes?

The round table is fine. No one faces anyone, and all three are together. Valery seems a little less on the edge than when they picked him up in the morning. He glanced at Ulana in the front seat then at Boris driving, and said nothing. He just got in the back of the car. He never asked why they showed up together. He was quiet during the ride, even when Ulana told him about the Central Committee paperwork, out of lingering guilt perhaps. He nodded absently. That was all. But now, in this ridiculous place, the general bemusement seems to have lifted his mood.

Ironically enough, the food the waiters bring is entirely ordinary. Kasha, kefir, bread, butter, jam, tea, coffee - making the luxury of the place all the more risible. Is this how these people live, then? Is this what it means to belong to the Party, to be a high-ranking official: to be able to eat a modest kasha in fine porcelain bowls? Ulana allows herself two spoonfuls of sugar and a good serving of butter, for good measure.

"Here," Boris says, and pours some coffee on Valery's cup with excessive solicitude. "Have coffee. Real coffee, not that thing from the can."

Valery smiles at him in thanks, the kind of small, delighted smile that makes him so endearing. Boris then moves the pot towards Ulana, offering her some too, and she nods. She butters some bread, puts some jam on it, and gives it to Valery, who smiles even more as she puts it on his plate. Waiting on him to make themselves forgiven seems to be working.

"That's a very pretty dress you're wearing this morning," he tells her, a little shyly, in lieu of thanks. 

"I've had an annoying old man reviewing my wardrobe of late," she answers, with a playful glare towards Boris.

"I know him," Valery says. "I'm starting to get nervous when I dress in the mornings. Not that I have much of a choice back there," he adds, his tone somber.

"Hey," Ulana says, and reaches across the immaculately white tablecloth to squeeze Valery's hand. "Let's not talk about that place. For twenty minutes at least."

Both men nod, and Boris leans back in his chair, resting his hand on the back of Valery's.

"What shall we talk about, then?" he asks.

"Do we _ have _ to talk?" Valery asks with a whine, as he takes a healthy bite of his bread and butter, getting jam all over his upper lip.

"Do we even have enough things in common to have a normal conversation?" Ulana asks, raising an eyebrow. "I do wonder if we'd ever sit like this, the three of us - if the thing we're not talking about hadn't happened."

It's strange to think she may not have ever met these two men, never known they existed, never known they could sit like this as friends - and even lovers. She doesn't like that thought.

"Pff. Not here," Valery says. "Not a chance. He'd hate us," he says, pointing at Boris. "Have us thrown out of here for dressing like proletarians."

"And you both would think me an idiot in a suit."

"Well," Ulana says, teasingly. "Who says we don't now?"

"Mm," Valery says, still chewing and looking at Boris with some fondness. "I don't."

"I do," she says. "But I like him all the same."

Boris flashes her a shy smile that doesn't go unnoticed by Valery. He stares down at his bread and puts more jam in it, but immediately makes a mess all over his hands - and on his blue tie.

"Good grief, I can't take you anywhere," Boris scolds. 

"Sorry, sorry, I'll go wash my hands."

Ulana looks at him, amused, as he makes a hasty retreat to the toilet. The coffee is out of this world good - she'll be awake for hours thanks to it. When she sets her cup down, Boris reaches for her hand across the table and holds it between his own.

"What you asked, earlier." Ulana nods. There's a hardness in Boris's gaze, a determination she has only seen him sporting on the field, as he adds, "They say love grows in the most unexpected places. I think it's true, after all. And I'm not just talking about the person we spoke of last night."

Ulana feels her face warming, his meaning not lost on her - she'd have to be very oblivious not to understand, with the way he's holding her hand.

"It's too soon to speak of love," she says, trying to keep her feet on the ground. "And I don't think even you know what you want."

"Maybe so," Boris says. "But I'm just saying one day it might."

"It might," she concedes, hoping her face isn't too red.

"I'll come see you. As often as I'm back in Moscow," he says - not asking, just stating it.

Ulana shakes her head. "Not too often." She looks at Valery, who is returning from the toilet with a frown and she pulls her hand back discreetly. "You can't leave him alone too often. That's your job now. To look after him."

"I know," Boris says, and smiles at Valery when he rejoins them at the table.

Yes. They definitely make the strangest trio.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for canon-like discussion about death, dying, mortality and an oblique suicide ideation mention.
> 
> This chapter takes place about 3 months after the last, following the series time jump between episodes 3 and 4 - so Ulana and Boris have seen each other a few times in between.
> 
> The sentence about digging up hope after burying it is verbatim from tenar-of-atuan in a Discord discussion - thank you! The song they talk about in the text is a (very cute) [children’s song about peace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzK9HAjh-xI), and the chorus goes "May there always be sunshine / May there always be sky / May there always be mommy / May there always be me."
> 
> I hope you all continue enjoying this story after the, um, break-point we reach in this chapter! The good news is that I’m almost done writing until the end, so the final chapter count has been updated. 
> 
> Thank you again for your comments and kudos so far.

* * *

Boris's excellent mood decreases noticeably the moment the helicopter lands back in Pripyat - back to hell, the yawning abyss impossible to miss from the air. Here all their efforts are constantly thwarted, under Valery's anxious watch, but things are much simpler in Moscow: administrative battles he can fight, paperwork expedient and familiar, Ulana's bed, warm and wild. It's dangerous, in a way: this morning when he awoke next to her he had the thought, for the briefest moment, to just stay there and not go anywhere (betraying his mission, betraying his duty, betraying Valery). It lasted no more than a second, but it pained him enough to slip out of her room without waking her - with just a kiss on her brow as she slept. She'll understand.

Boris was only gone two days from Pripyat, but Pikalov updates him on the construction of the perimeter of the concrete structure and other military matters as he's driven to the Polissya. Nothing too pressing or catastrophic, thankfully, though the number of ill soldiers is rising steadily. Most stray pets have been eliminated. What wretched business, this cleanup. 

Valery isn't in the conference room or in his bedroom when Boris looks for him. The soldier manning the reception informs him that Professor Legasov was seen climbing up to the roof of the hotel about an hour earlier, so Boris too heads up there, puzzled by this unusual behavior. It's still 7 in the evening, the summer hours are long and the sun is out - Valery usually works at this time of the day. Perhaps he wanted a smoke, undisturbed by the scarce KGB agents that are left. It was a small victory for Boris the day they started dwindling: perhaps it made him an odious human being, but he learned of their illness with some satisfaction. Charkov wasn't as brazen to send a new, large wave of promising agents to meet their swift end, so the few agents sent of late were older, less energetic - less keen to keep a watchful eye. Still, Valery might have simply wanted to be alone with his thoughts. 

Boris finds him on the roof alright, with a cigarette on his lips and his hands in the pockets of his trousers, staring off into the horizon marred by the broken reactor. The giant letters of the hotel look ridiculous amidst all the desolation. It's warm today: Valery isn't wearing a dress shirt, but simply his white undershirt and those hideous beige military slacks, giving him a scruffy look, unkempt.

"Valera!" Boris calls, unable to keep the cheer from his voice as he nears him.

Valery doesn't turn to see him, though by the time he joins him by the edge of the roof, Boris can see a small smile. He also notices a half empty bottle of vodka by Valery's feet.

"Welcome back," he says, with no particular cheer of his own as he takes his cigarette out of his mouth.

"I have excellent news," Boris tells him, and his heart shrinks at the possibility that Valery might, again, not be satisfied at all. "I managed to procure the lunar rover!"

Valery does turn towards him now, an eyebrow raised in admiration, and Boris breathes again.

"It will be transported here next week, along with technicians and engineers to assist in its operation. What do you say, eh?" he tells him, touching his arm affectionately.

"Wonderful," Valery says, his half-smile growing wider. "I hope it works."

"It will. It will."

If it doesn't... what hope is there? The finest Soviet technology. It has to work. Boris refuses to consider otherwise.

"I also spoke to Tarakanov again," he adds. "He'll fly in next week. He has a vast experience in military operations and good contacts abroad, I have nothing but the highest respect for him. I'm sure he'll be able to help us with Masha."

"I doubt he can help with Masha," Valery says, breaking eye contact and staring off in the reactor’s direction.

Boris almost snaps at him: _ Would it kill you to show a sliver of optimism? _ but he rethinks his choice of words when he abruptly notices that Valery is standing too close to the edge of the roof. The bottle of vodka? His gaze, lost and vacant? He should have never left him this long. Fear shakes Boris from head to toe, violently enough for him to dare to put an arm around Valery's shoulders.

"Come, let's sit somewhere," he tells him, pulling him away from the edge.

Valery follows him docidely, though he brings the bottle along, a little unsteady on his feet. The concrete makes some sort of ledge around the huge letters, making a good bench. Instead of facing the reactor, it faces the sun on its slow descent westwards. A touch less grim to be sure. Valery drinks a sip straight from the bottle - this too is unusual. Boris has not known him to be drunk, or at least not too drunk. Out of necessity, perhaps: he out of all others must always keep a clear head.

"Here," Boris says, gesturing towards the sun. "Isn't this better? Like that children's song. May there always be sunshine, may there always be sky?"

Valery looks up at the sky, blue and perfect like all summer evenings, turning golden where the sun is descending.

"Sadly," he says, almost in a whisper, "unlike in the song, _ I _ may not always be here."

That's unusually harsh, even for Valery's realism. It stings Boris like a lash, and he flinches. That song stands for hope, for all that is beautiful. To hear it desecrated with their own mortality is so egregious he'd get angry at Valery if he weren't so concerned with his current state of mind.

"Did something happen while I was gone?" he asks him.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Valery says with a shrug as he takes a drag from his cigarette. "And you? Had fun in Moscow?"

Something about his tone, offhanded and forced, puts Boris on his guard.

"Not so," he lies. "Boring administrative matters. I wanted to come back to you as soon as possible."

"Borya, don't lie to me," Valery says, though his tone is now gentle. "I know you're seeing a woman in Moscow. You always come back happier when you see her." He throws his cigarette on the concrete and crushes it with his foot. "And I know that woman is Ulana."

Boris gapes at him, so little prepared for this conversation that he has no idea whatsoever what to say. Deny it? Ridiculous. Explain? Apologize? He tries to keep a straight face, but his heart starts hammering with alarming speed. 

"Ah," he manages, far more calmly than he feels. "I didn't know you knew."

"So it's true?" Valery says, glancing at him with some surprise. 

What, he wasn't sure? Boris could have denied it? He feels like an idiot, but he gives a brief nod. Valery goes back to crushing the butt of his cigarette, a little more aggressively, until it's reduced to nothing but ashes and paper.

"Since when?" he asks, and there's a hint of resentment in his question.

Strictly speaking, since May Day, but Boris forces himself to be entirely truthful and he answers, "Since the day we met."

Valery looks even more surprised - surprised and pained.

"But _ how _?" he asks, and Boris hasn't blushed like this in at least fifty years but he feels his face warming. Valery adds, "You didn't get along at all. You fought like cats and dogs."

"We still do," Boris tells him, smiling fondly as he remembers their latest argument, just the night before, but swallows his smile when he sees Valery's face. "What can I say? It works."

Valery huffs with a mixture of disgust and bemusement that irritates Boris. He didn't expect to feel protective of whatever the hell it is that he and Ulana are doing, but he does. He wants to set the record straight, but he is also terrified of being the one to start this fight that is apparently brewing. Is Valery jealous? Boris doesn't know whether to feel wretched or encouraged by this. Hope shouldn't be so treacherously laced with poison. Valery takes off his glasses to press his hands to his eyes.

"I feel like a fool. Why didn't you tell me?" he asks. 

"I thought you wanted her," Boris says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm not good with people," Valery says, and shakes his head at himself. "Not a good partner. Sometimes I think not even a good person. There's a reason I never married. That reason is me."

Boris notes Valery didn't confirm or deny wanting Ulana, but he feels compelled to argue against this self-deprecating drivel.

"No one is good with people," he tells him, forcefully. "People are just people. You end up tolerating each other, eventually." He takes a deep breath. "Like you and me, for example."

Valery, still without glasses, glances at him, an eyebrow raised. Boris is too old for these kinds of conversations: his heart is beating much faster than what any doctor would recommend at his age.

"What?" he tries to amend. "We didn't get along either. And look at us now." 

Valery's face softens. "Yes," he says. "Look at us now."

He puts his glasses back on. He glances at Boris with some hesitation. He gestures around them, towards the skies.

"I don't want to do this without you," he says.

"Why do you say that! You don't have to. You'll never have to, as long as it's in my power. I'm with you. Until the end."

"Til death do us part?" Valery says, with a wry chuckle.

"Yes," Boris says, his voice raspy, the choice of words not lost on him. "Yes, you know it."

But Valery shakes his head, again.

"At some point," he says, looking away from Boris, "when I was thirty or so, I just assumed it was something that wouldn't happen to me. You know? One of those old grumpy bachelors. It didn't matter: I had my job, my career. But then I met you. And I met Ulana. Do you know how painful it is to dig up hope after you've buried it so deep?"

"I don't know," Boris mutters, because Valery said he met Ulana, but he also said _ you_, and it feels like everything is happening too fast for him to understand what's coming at him. Yet it was a rhetorical question, because Valery keeps talking.

"And then, what for? Why dig up hope at all? I'm a dead man walking. You may be able to put it off your mind, but I cannot. I think of it every day, that I'll be gone soon, and I hope I manage to seal this nightmare off before I die."

"You will," Boris protests weakly.

It's like he's hemorrhaging on this roof without any hope of recovery. He _ does _ know what it's like to dig up hope, but he wasn't aware of it until Valery said it out loud. He was widowed, for heaven's sake: he closed up that part of himself forever, or so he thought. And then Ulana... It does hurt. It's excruciating. But he was rather focused on how good it felt, however briefly. So they are dying: it cut through him for a few painful days, but then he shoved it away and lost himself in solving the catastrophic problem at hand and yes, in Ulana too. Is it stupid, primal, short-sighted? Boris doesn't care. It gets him out of bed in the morning and gets him to work. He doesn't know how else to be.

Ulana said Valery was a Pandora's box of feelings. She did warn him, and she stayed away. But instead of yawning it open with utmost caution Pandora's box has now seemingly burst into the skies, in Boris's face.

"Even so," Valery insists. "What partner can I hope to be in these circumstances? What can I bring to the table?"

"Everything!" Boris says, unable to keep the heat from his voice. "Valera. I can't speak for her. I can only speak for myself. But I have no doubt that whatever you would bring to the table would be enough. More than enough."

His next words are ready: 'Either of us would be lucky to have you,' but his throat feels too tight, preventing him to speak. If Valery were a woman, he'd grab her face and kiss her. But he's a man. What can Boris do? Despite all the fantasies, all the dirty talk, he now can't even dare to reach for his hand, or to put a hand on his shoulder. It feels like the world itself is shaking, turning itself on its axis. Is _ this _ what Ulana meant?

"No," Valery says. "I don't think so. It's not for me. I can't be anyone's, not now, maybe not ever."

"You are too hard on yourself. If you lifted your nose from your calculations for one moment, you might find that you are... loved. Not just by her... By me, too."

It's becoming harder to breathe. That last sentence was just above a whisper. But Valery still shakes his head stubbornly, glossing over this confession that Boris struggled so hard to say out loud.

"I can't lift my nose from my calculations or thousands will die!" he says, raising his voice, and Boris is reminded of his high-pitched panic in the helicopter, the day they met. "Who else will do this job if not me? Who else is willing to come here?"

"After this is over, then," Boris suggests, at the edge of despair.

"Before I die, you mean?"

"Forget dying!" Boris finally gets enough courage to touch him, to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, making him face him. "You haven't died yet!"

They are close enough to kiss, if Boris dared. Valery's breath smells of vodka. They could brush it off as drunkenness later, but Boris has never felt more sober in his life. And then what? Touch him? Take him to bed? He has the vague notion that Valery wouldn't want, that he'd refuse, that he'd feel offended that this is what Boris wants from him, despite what Ulana insinuated. He's already said he loves him, and it didn't seem to matter, for fuck's sake. 

Valery stares and stares at him behind those thick glasses, easy to read like an open book. There's a touch of fear in his gaze, but mostly of anger, sadness, disillusionment - nothing positive. So Boris stays very still and gently pries his hands off Valery's shoulders.

"I _ can't _ forget dying," Valery says, hoarsely, still very close to him. "I don't want anyone. I _ can't _ want anyone. Something broke the day I came here. It cannot be put back together."

Boris doesn't know what hurts more: being told straight that Valery doesn't want anyone, or the plaintive tone with which he says it. He can't remember when was the last time he cried (likely the funeral, a lifetime ago), but he feels tears stinging in his eyes.

"Look," Valery says, very softly, and he reaches for Boris's hand. He squeezes it gently, but Boris holds it tighter, never wanting to let go. "If you and Ulana managed to find something good out of this catastrophe, then I envy you. But I'm also happy for you. For both of you. You're the people I love the most in the world."

He tries to pry his hand free but Boris won't let go. This can't be the end of the conversation. He doesn't understand. If they all love each other, why can it not be? Can whatever broke inside Valery be unbroken, or pieced back together? He almost says,_ I will wait for you, I will wait for however long it takes_, but time is precisely what they don't have at all in this race against their bodies's apparent self-destruction. He wants to grab him, hold the back of his neck where his shoddy haircut makes [a most distracting curl](https://gwinny3k.tumblr.com/post/187322229126) and pull him even closer, forehead against forehead.

Valery looks into his eyes again, and for a second Boris thinks (hopes) he's going to lean closer and kiss him, but he only smiles at him.

"Please," he says. "Be very happy. And let's never speak of this again when I sober up."

Boris lets go of his hand, then, not because he wants him to leave, but because he has to stand up and turn his back on Valery so he doesn't see him cry. He hears the door of the rooftop shutting somewhere behind him, and he allows himself a shaky breath as he wipes his eyes with his sleeve.

This kind of pain - he doesn't remember it ever hurting this much. When one is young, heartbreaks come and go and are easily forgotten, replaced. But at this age? It feels like the world has ended, leaving one behind and alone in nothingness, with nothing to look forward to - not unlike the empty shell that Pripyat has become.

But no, that's not entirely right, is it. There might still be something to look forward to, though Boris isn't sure he'll ever be able to gaze into Ulana's eyes and not remember this conversation. The deal they made in his kitchen - how presumptuous of them to assume that Valery would want either of them. In the end, then, they only have each other, and their association only hangs by a very thin thread to begin with. 

Boris rushes back to his room, wanting to call her, to hear her voice to forget. Once he makes it there and lifts the receiver, he can't bring himself to dial. Old fool. He's half afraid she would laugh at him. Or cry with him, which would be ten thousand times worse. 

He'll call her another day, when he's more composed.

* * *

In the end, Ulana does neither when he calls her: she doesn't laugh at him or cry, but she fights with him - because apparently that's all they're good at.

"Our deal is off," he tells her dryly, after they've exchanged their hellos. The line is crisp and clear, and Boris is relatively sure it's secure from prying ears, but with this subject he cannot take any chances. "The person we spoke of is not interested in either option we were offering."

Ulana stays silent for a long moment.

"You must be speaking of Marfa, your seamstress," she says, offhandedly, and for a second or two Boris wonders what she's on about. "She didn't find any of the two dresses suitable?"

He catches on, after a pause. "No," he says, though he doesn't like this kind of games and he doesn't think it will fool anyone. But it's a matter of life or death. So be it: Marfa is Valery, and he and Ulana are dresses.

"She told you this outright?"

"Yes," Boris says. "I don't want either, she said. I can't want any of them."

"That's a bold statement for her to make. What brought it on? What made her talk about the dresses? I didn't think she'd be a seamstress to argue like this with her clients."

"I was forced to speak of my preference for one of the dresses, and she offered her opinion."

"You _ told _ her?"

"She asked!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Boris."

"What did you want me to do? Lie to her face?"

"Aren't you a politician?"

"Not for this. What kind of question is that? I wouldn't lie to a friend like this."

Ulana sighs. "Listen. I will speak to her. I will travel... where she is and talk to her."

"What? What for? To say what? I've upset her enough. She's busy and in no state to speak of dresses. Not now, not ever, she said."

"Not _ ever _?"

"Well, she's... old. Sad. She thinks she's going to die shortly and doesn't want to bother with dresses."

"That's absurd. I'll speak to her. I can be there tomorrow. She can... measure me. Physically. I'm sure she'll change her mind."

"_Physically _?" Boris scoffs. "You will do no such thing. I don't want you near her, to complicate everything. She's not well. I'm having a hard enough time to keep her spirits high."

"_I _complicate everything? Are you her keeper now, that you don't want me near her?"

"I thought we agreed I was," he says, quietly. He doesn't like fighting like this, over the phone. He can't see Ulana's face. He can't shut her up with a glare. Valery's rejection already left him deflated, and he isn't keen to win this argument.

"And you took it to mean you could also control what I do or don't do regarding him. Her. Well, fuck off."

Actually, never mind: her cussing reawakens his frustration over all this.

"Fuck you too, Ulana," he snarls. "You don't know him at all if you think this is about physical stuff. I don't even think that matters to him. Her. To her! You have no idea what she's like."

"And you, of course, are the world's expert on Marfa, able to decide for her in advance."

"Better than you, I think, who thinks you can solve this with your body. Is that how you fix everything, usually?"

"That's not how I meant it, you pig!"

The line goes dead as Ulana hangs up the phone. Hm. That last bit about her body was a little insulting, wasn't it. What the hell else did she mean? Boris isn't done fighting. He dials again and again, but she doesn't pick up. It gives a disconnected sound eventually, like she unhooked the line. Well, fuck her. Boris is tempted to hurl the phone against the wall, and the only reason he doesn't do it is because that's the wall he shares with Valery. 

The next morning, he asks Pikalov to inform him immediately of any upcoming flights, along with their passenger manifestos, and spends a few anxious days expecting her to just show up. Tarakanov does come, and the lunar rover, and the expert technicians.

But she doesn't come.

The weeks pass, and Ulana doesn't come at all.

Boris starts wondering if he's made a mistake, the kind of mistake that leaves both hands empty and a hollow feeling in his chest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I’ve gone on and on both on my blog and in my Valana fic about the scene in the abandoned building of Episode 4 and why it was so hurtful for Ulana from an academic/women-in-science point of view ([1](https://chernoblank.tumblr.com/post/186108599134/things-that-were-not-that-obvious-to-me-in-the), [2](https://chernoblank.tumblr.com/post/186006719999/youve-seen-this-paper-before), [3](https://chernoblank.tumblr.com/post/186545965004/sorry-i-still-cant-get-over-how-betrayed), [4](https://chernoblank.tumblr.com/post/185994224714/okfan527-valerafan2-pottedmusic), [5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872961/chapters/47359834)). In this Uloris fic, since Boris thwarted Valana in chapter 4, she was spared the additional, more personal hurt if she’d also got romantically/sexually involved with Valery (which would’ve made the dynamic even worse), but the scientific hurt still lingers. 
> 
> Also, it seems to me that yet another disagreement with Boris would be far easier to navigate for her than one with Valery. 
> 
> Anyway, I just didn’t want to rewrite the same thing again and I’ve chosen to situate this chapter the day after, when she’s back in Minsk. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! We’re almost at the end (mind the new tags!). I love all your comments and kudos.
> 
> ps: the belt makes a comeback

* * *

Ulana shows up at work ridiculously early, because at some point it was becoming useless to be lying awake in bed. She barely slept at all. She thought she'd be exhausted after being driven back and forth to Pripyat in a single day, never mind her own anger, but she scarcely closed her eyes when she slipped into bed, tense like a coil on the verge of snapping. 

She washes her hands with the freezing water of the lab sink, perversely enjoying the brief discomfort on the tip of her fingers. Most of the lights are still off, but she makes her way to her desk, where she turns on the small lamp. Its brightness hurts her eyes. If she replays the conversation of the day before in her head, she'll get angry all over again.

Screw Valery.

Ulana did exactly as he asked. She found out who was responsible, no matter the consequences. All those months of hard work as she reconstructed the accident? Gone, brushed under the rug to spare the government's precious sensibilities. And Boris! She could strangle Boris for speaking to her the way he did. At least she has plenty of experience dealing with his churlish intimidation tactics, leaving her immune to his glares. 

She stays like this in the dark for hours, mulling over it, until Dmitry arrives and turns on all the lights and gets the equipment working.

It hasn't been easy, inserting herself back to the normal work routine. Dmitry has grown more confident during her long absence: he took over several of her projects and is handling them with ease. While Ulana is proud of him, of course, it only highlights her own irrelevance. She's too young to retire, and yet being gone a few months left her so hollowed out academically she might as well resign. But no. She won't let the system bulldoze over her while she's still in good health. Now more than ever she must fight to stay afloat, start a new project, a new paper - anything to keep her mind off the horrors she's seen. Of the horrors she knows could happen again, and yet she's powerless to stop.

No, really, fuck Valery.

She begins organizing the journal editions she hasn't had time to read in the past months into neat piles to give herself something else to think of, but the task is repetitive and mindless, and she can't help replaying the fights over and over again. Some sort of commotion in the hallway has her looking up briefly, but she can't quite make out who is speaking, so she keeps sorting journals diligently, until the voices sound a little too close for comfort. 

"If you wish to visit the rest of the Institute, please be assured we will do everything to accommodate you."

"Thank you," says that low, gravelly voice Ulana knows so well. "Perhaps another time. I'm only here to see Comrade Khomuyk."

Ulana takes off her reading glasses at once and watches, stunned, as Boris walks through the narrow door of her lab, his shoulders barely fitting through. He doesn't look around the room: he meets Ulana's gaze at once, and doesn't glance away. Her heart jumps, of course, at the sight of his blue eyes.

"This is Comrade Deputy Chairman Boris Shcherbina," says Korolyov, the director of the Institute, with a self-aggrandizing tone as he squirrels in behind Boris.

Intimidated, Dmitry stands up from his desk, wide-eyed. Ulana should probably stand, too, but she remains sitting a little defiantly, looking up at Boris - the only one unimpressed by this high-ranking Party man in their tiny lab.

"Leave us," Boris says, in that commanding tone that admits no arguments. 

Dmitry disappears at once, but Korolyov lingers, incapable of understanding that this order was for him too, until Boris finally glances away from Ulana to look at him with some exasperation. The Director of the Institute pales a little and steps out, shutting the door behind himself and leaving the two of them alone.

"What are you doing here?" Ulana asks. Her voice sounds a little wry. "I thought you were flying back to Moscow last night."

"I didn't," Boris says. "I sent Valery off and I flew here instead. This morning."

"But why?"

"To see you, of course."

"You just saw me yesterday. I didn't get the impression you enjoyed it. It was a thoroughly unpleasant meeting for everyone." 

"I didn't enjoy it, no," he says and walks closer until he's standing right next to her desk, towering over her. "But I do wish things had gone differently."

"Oh yes, me too. I could have done away with you belittling me."

"I wasn't belittling you. You were suggesting something outrageous to Valery, so I pointed out how wrong you were."

"By belittling me, yes. I suppose you didn't get enough of that? Came all the way to Minsk to keep arguing?"

"You could say so," Boris says, but with a smile. He touches the corner of her desk, gently running his fingers over it as if caressing it. It makes her shiver a little. "Can we talk somewhere safe? A park or something?"

"It's winter, Boris. Do you really want to take a stroll in the park?"

"That coat you were wearing yesterday seemed sturdy enough," he says and gives her an appraising look - at her, at her clothes. Perhaps even at her body. "Your house?" he suggests, and Ulana laughs out loud at him.

"After yesterday, I have to say I don't particularly want you right now."

"I said talk, not fuck," Boris says, facetiously.

"Maybe I don't want to talk either," she tells him.

"You're talking to me right now," Boris says, with half a huff, half a chuckle. He's insufferable, but she gives in, in a way.

"Not my house," she tells him. "You'll think it's a hovel, and I'm sure it's a complete mess in there right now, even for my liking."

"The park it is, then," he says, and extends a hand towards the coat rack, where Ulana hung it this morning, and holds it open for her to wear it.

_ This _ she hasn't missed (or perhaps she has?): he doesn't bother being persuasive. He gives orders, and expects them to be followed. And yet Ulana stands, unable to do otherwise, and steps into the coat, sliding her arms in the sleeves. Boris makes her turn gently and starts doing the buttons up, standing very close to her. This is new: getting dressed by him, after being undressed so many times. _ You're my doll_, he told her the first time they had sex. Boris does all the buttons neatly, one by one, and only meets Ulana's gaze when he's finished. She wishes she didn't blush.

"Why didn't you come?" Boris asks, in a whisper. "To Pripyat, all these months. I was waiting for you."

"You made it very clear you didn't want me there," she answers, just as quietly, but unable to keep the resentment from her tone. "Your exact words were: 'I don't want you near him', I believe."

”I didn't think that would be enough to stop you."

"It wasn't. But I thought you were angry," she admits.

"I thought _ you _ were angry."

"I was angry. Very angry. But not for very long." 

She swallows. She missed him, those two months. She even missed Valery, that undeserving brat. Boris wraps her scarf around her neck, perhaps a little too tightly, and then hands her the beret. 

"Let's go," he says.

It snowed the night before, but the sidewalks have been cleared. The air is crisp and dry, and Boris starts coughing the moment they step out of the Institute. Ulana glances at him.

"Are you sick?" she asks. He seemed fine the day before.

"It's nothing," he grumbles. "I must have caught cold in that abandoned school yesterday."

It was very cold there, yes. Ulana still doesn't understand why they had to meet there and not in a relatively secure location in Moscow, in Minsk, or anywhere else properly heated, really. But perhaps taking a stroll in a park is not the best of ideas if Boris isn't feeling too well. She makes her way to the nearest one, but if he coughs again, she might just have to give in and invite him home, though she inwardly cringes at his reaction if he steps into her mess. 

"For what it's worth, I don't think my lab is bugged," she says, looking straight ahead as they walk together on the sidewalk.

"You never know," Boris says.

"I think I do know. I haven't noticed anything after I returned from Moscow. Believe me, I look over my shoulder all the time now. They must think me Valery's assistant or something along those lines. No one important."

Boris touches her arm to stop her. "You said that yesterday too. It's utter rubbish. He doesn't think like that."

"I'd rather hear it from him, and not from you," she says, shaking her head. "And his actions spoke louder than his words. I'm so angry at him, Boris. I know you don't understand. But he didn't play fair with me when he didn't tell me about that paper."

"Hm," Boris says, and resumes walking. "He had a lot on his mind."

"Don't defend him. It only makes it worse. He's a product of the System, that's all. I didn't know it until now."

"So am I. And so are you, despite you claiming otherwise."

"I know." Ulana sighs. "You called me naive to my face (and fuck you for that, by the way), but that _ is _ the kind of world I'd like to live in. A world where my opinion as a nuclear physicist matters, instead of those of petty politicians."

"Everything is about politics," he says, and his tone is gruff but not hostile. "Everything, everywhere. That world you dream of? It doesn't exist, my dear girl. Valery used to have those dreams too. Chernobyl beat them out of him."

It's the first time Boris uses an endearment for her outside of sex. Ulana stares down at the sidewalk, minding where she's stepping, and admits to herself that she liked it, even if what he's saying is only cutting deeper in the wounds that haven't stopped bleeding since her confrontation with Valery. There is no one in the park when they find their way there, not even old grannies. It's probably either too early or too late for that, but the benches haven't been cleared of snow and their footsteps are the only ones on the trail leading towards the frozen statue in the middle of it. It's an allegory of who knows what, Socialism or Brotherhood, something along those lines, but the snow makes it hard to distinguish the figures. She never paid attention to it. Ulana turns towards Boris when they reach it.

"That time when you called me? I didn't want to go there and fuck him, like you implied. But I'll do you the justice of saying you were right, for once. It would have made everything worse if I'd got closer to him. Now I can be angry at a colleague, instead of a friend."

"He _ is _ your friend," Boris says. "He said he loved you. Us. Both of us, more than anyone in the world."

Ulana stares at the statue, taking in that statement. It hurts, today more than ever.

"He doesn't think he deserves to be happy with anyone," Boris goes on, his voice wavering a little. "Can you believe that? Him? _ Him _? He thinks about dying constantly. And then you come along, and tell him 'to hell with our lives'? I could have strangled you for putting that idea in his head."

"I didn't say it to hurt him," she says, but something heavy and unpleasant tightens her throat. "But we are done in, the three of us. We're going to die soon, no question about it."

"Not you too with this drivel!" Boris exclaims and turns away from her. 

"What, it's the truth!" she says, circling around him to face him again. "And if we're going to die, we might as well make it worthwhile. Make things right while we still can."

"By going on a suicide mission against the State? You think that's worthwhile?"

"What is, then, if not?"

Boris pulls her against him. His coat is cold, but he is warm underneath. Ulana presses against him unconsciously.

"_This_," he says, his voice hoarse. "I've only just found you! Why do you want to throw it all away?"

She feels tears stinging in her eyes, quite unexpectedly.

"Don't..." she starts saying, and hesitates because she knows it's nasty, but ends up saying it anyway. "Don't act like this is some love story. You're only here with me because Valery wouldn't want you."

"Not only," Boris says, shaking his head. "When he asked me about when we got together, I said since the day we met. I wanted you then and I want you now. Isn't that enough?"

"How romantic," she says, a little dryly. "I guess it'll have to be." She steps closer, against his warmth, and plays with his scarf. "Did you want me yesterday?"

"God, yes," he whispers. "I had hoped you'd stay."

"It wouldn't have worked out. I was too angry."

"I like it when you're angry."

"There's something wrong with us, Boris," she says, and pulls him down by the scarf to kiss him.

His lips may be cold, but his tongue is wet and warm as it slides alongside hers. She wants him too, she realizes, there's never been a moment she hasn't not wanted him, infuriating as he may be. So be it, then: they're Valery's leftovers. Maybe they'll be able to put a full meal back together, the two of them. But Boris pulls back from the kiss and looks to the side to cough. 

"Sorry," he mutters.

"Ugh, I'll probably catch it from you now."

"I'll be sure to be in perfect health the next time I kiss you," he says with a roll of his eyes.

"I can't wait that long. But promise me something," Ulana says, tightening his scarf to cover his throat better. 

"What?"

"Don't... say anything when you see my flat. Or at least, try not to be too insulting."

Boris chuckles. "I think I can weather it, for you."

Ulana makes a mental inventory of how it must look as they make their short way there - she lives close to the Institute. The good news is, the last time she cleaned wasn't too long ago, bored to tears as she was with the lack of work at the lab, so the bed sheets are clean, and the floor is relatively well scrubbed. But there's no hiding the mess, books, pieces of paper, clothes both clean and dirty, some of the non-perishable food she didn't bother taking out of the shopping bag... At least it's warm inside. She wishes she could blindfold Boris when she lets him in. She doesn't look at him (she doesn't want to see his face), but she hears the noise he makes, a mix of horror and surprise, but also vaguely of fondness.

"Be quiet and come to bed," Ulana tells him as she takes off her boots and hangs her coat on the hook by the door.

"I didn't say anything," Boris says, sounding amused, and he also takes off his coat and shoes to follow her into the bedroom.

There's stuff on the floor, mostly shoes, but he slides them aside with his foot - quite politely, not saying a word, though Ulana is sure she can hear him thinking out loud. Once in the bedroom, the bed isn't made of course, and there's clothes and more books that she hurries to clear away onto an already stuffed desk. When she turns around to make the bed, she finds Boris already seated on it, on the side that is the messiest.

"Ulana," he says. "I really don't care."

"Liar. You're just saying that to get laid."

"That too," he says, and gestures at her to come closer. He spreads his legs so that she can step between them. He holds on to her hips, his grip firm on them. "But I'd fuck you anywhere. In the back of a rundown Zhiguli. Behind a barn, in the mud. In a filthy bathroom in Berlin."

Ulana makes a noise of disgust. "I hope that's your idea of dirty talk, because I'm starting to feel rather insulted."

"Insulted! Hm. And what else?"

Boris slides his hands down and starts pulling her woolen stockings down her legs until they're pooling at her ankles. His hands are cold when they slide up her thighs under her skirt, making her shiver.

"And a little hot," she admits.

"Only a little?" he asks, his right hand finding its way to her underwear, and teasing her over it. He frowns and marks a pause. "This skirt. Am I right in noticing it's not the kind you wear usually?"

"Ha!" Ulana spreads her legs further, hoping for him to continue what he stopped. "It's a bit of a funny story."

"I'm all ears," Boris says, very patiently, and not moving his fingers one bit. Ulana bites her lips not to let out an undignified whine.

"Believe it or not, I went to have tea with Marfa when I was in Moscow."

"What!" He frowns at her. "I hope you were polite."

"Of course I was, who do you take me for? She seemed lonely, that time, and I wanted to talk about something that wasn't radiation poisoning. She was very happy to see me, I'll have you know. One thing led to another and she made me some things for the winter. She said she'd put them on your bill."

"Did she, now?" Boris says, raising an eyebrow.

"I was going to pay you," Ulana says, a little flustered. "Then you called me, and I got angry at you, and I thought I'd let you pay for it all to get back at you. I mean, I can still pay you now, of course."

"Yes, that sounds like you," Boris says, and laughs out loud. "Keep them: they're yours. Now that I remember, I did think you were unusually dolled up yesterday."

"I wasn't dolled up!"

"You were," he whispers, and finally, finally slips a finger inside her underwear to rub her, and Ulana can't hold back a gasp.

He slides his other hand up her skirt too, to squeeze her ass, grabbing at it, spreading her more. Ulana holds on to his shoulders for balance as he pulls her panties down. She makes a noise of protest when he removes his finger, because she was just starting to get fired up, but Boris lifts her skirt slowly, just enough to slip his head under it. He presses a kiss to her wetness, but Ulana freezes.

"Wait," she says, and takes a step back. Boris glares up at her. "You don't have to," she adds, trying not to make a fuss but clearly failing at it. "I know you don't usually do this. Or did. You said you only did it to... to..." Ulana can't make herself say '_to your wife_' and makes a frustrated sound instead. "You don't have to, if you don't want."

"I want," Boris says, pulling her closer. "I've been wanting to do this to you for weeks. So be good, get on the bed, and spread your legs for me."

Ulana stares at him for a brief moment, wondering not for the first time how it is that they've stumbled into _ this _ together, why it works, and why what she would never tolerate coming from any other man becomes simply irresistible when Boris demands it. Then she climbs on her bed and lies on her back, legs spread as he ordered. She slides down one of her hands to give herself a quick rub as Boris takes off his tie and shirt, but then he dives under her skirt again, and he swats her hand away as he replaces it with his tongue.

It's obscene, the sounds they're making: Boris is being sloppy, licking her so thoroughly that the skirt doesn't muffle his enthusiasm, and Ulana writhes and squirms as if to get away from him, but his grip on her thighs is too firm, and she moans louder and louder as he holds her in place. Her neighbors will be shocked to hear her, if they're at home at this hour, and she would laugh, if only Boris would let her a moment of respite. She felt like a tensed coil, earlier today, but the tension finally gives inside of her, snaps off, eases away. She comes hard against his mouth, and he keeps lapping at her until she's completely useless.

Ulana stares at him, at the intent look in his eyes as he pulls her skirt down and starts undressing the rest of her, piece by piece, moving her around a little roughly to slide all the clothes off her until she's naked under him. Still a little breathless, Ulana reaches for his trousers to undo them. He's wearing a belt today, and she loves the sound it makes as she unbuckles it. Boris pulls back from fondling her breasts to grin at her as she slides it off him completely. She wraps it around his hips, around his ass.

"I think I should return the favor," she says. 

"Then do it," he says, and unbuttons his trousers.

Ulana lets go of the belt, a little regretfully, and pushes Boris to make him sit back on the bed. His cock hardens more into her grip as she pulls it out, and his tip, wet already, tastes salty when she takes it in her mouth while still jerking him with her hand. She hears him draw in a sharp breath as she runs her tongue down the base of his shaft, and then his hands are resting on her head. If he pushes her down, Ulana thinks, she'll send him to hell, but Boris only slides his fingers through her hair, not pushing but pulling a little, and she can't hold back a moan against his cock as she bobs her head up and down. He's panting harder and harder, until he lets out something like a whimper.

"Stop," he begs (_begs_), "I don't want... to come... in your mouth." 

Ulana pulls back and sits up so that they're at eye level. "Where, then?" she whispers, and Boris pulls her forward to sit on his lap, but with his other hand he picks up the belt and wraps it around her back, keeping her firmly against him. 

Ulana kisses him hard as she sinks on him, the supple leather digging a little into her back as she starts fucking herself on him, slowly at first. It's a broken kiss, because they're both gasping into it as she picks up speed, but Boris chases her mouth, pressing little kisses to her lips as he whispers her name over and over, then light bites as she slides deeper down his cock. At some point, he lets go of the belt and she feels his hands on her back, moving up and down with her motions. When one of them happens to tangle itself into her hair to twist it down the back of her neck, Ulana moans against Boris's lips. She feels him shuddering against her and she clings to him, riding his orgasm wrapped around him tightly. She thinks, for the briefest moment, that she wishes this never had to end.

* * *

  
  


It's started snowing again, and while her blanket isn't aesthetically pleasing, it's fluffy and thick, perfect for making a warm cocoon to huddle under despite being naked. There's no Chernobyl in there, no AZ-5, no rods with graphite. It's perfect. She's resting her head on Boris's shoulder, and he's stroking her back distractedly, his mind seemingly elsewhere. At some point, she supposes, she'll have to return to the lab, get back to work, and dismiss Dmitry's questions. And Boris will return to Moscow.

"I do have a lunch meeting with some local Party members at noon," he says when she asks about his plans. He glances at his watch: it's not yet eleven. "I had to justify this detour somehow," he adds, when she raises an eyebrow at him. 

"A sex stopover is not acceptable for a man in your position?" she teases.

"It would have been, some time ago. But this Chernobyl mess has made me fall out of favor a little."

"Has it really?" she asks, surprised, and realizes how little she understands of the spheres Boris moves in. "But you contained it in the end."

"My detractors say I took too long. Mind you, the same detractors who did everything in their power to slow me down. They also say I gave Legasov too much leeway. Don't overthink it. It's just politics."

The word she has come to hate. She glances away from him.

"Ulana," Boris says, gently. "Forgive Valery."

"I can't," she says. "Not yet."

"When you do, talk to him. He's suffered enough."

"Haven't we all? You coddle him too much."

"And you're too hard on him."

Is she? Ulana didn't stop to consider this. But that's what he wanted her to be, wasn't it. The one to find the truth, no matter how unpleasant. 

"I'm tired of talking about Valery," she says. "We are just going to fight on and on and we'll never agree."

"Fine. But I still think covering up in Vienna is the best course of action."

"And I think it's appalling, and our only chance for a reform."

Boris makes an exasperated sound, but doesn't say anything more, mercifully.

It must matter, it must - all these months of research, at the cost of her own health, they must matter for something. Otherwise she's simply dying for nothing, so that Boris's enemies can sit in his chair in the future and endanger millions with their willful ignorance. But it's very difficult to think it was all in vain with Boris's arms wrapped so tightly around her, in her bed, under the covers. Ulana bites her lips. Is it weak to think this way? To brush off her academic and existential concerns, even momentarily? Haven't they suffered enough indeed? 

"I don't think I'll fit in your bed if I stay tonight," he says, changing the subject to something lighter. While her bed is ideally fit for just one person, they do fit in there together, just a little too cozy, maybe. 

"Tonight?" she repeats. "Are you feeling so rebellious, that you would stretch this detour for so long?"

"Not rebellious," he says. "Just a little foolish." He grabs one of her hands and brings it to his lips to kiss it. "You're not just a sex stopover. I hope you know that by now."

It always catches her off guard when he's sweet like this. Ulana doesn't know what to answer.

"Come to Moscow," he goes on, his tone heartbreakingly hopeful. "After Vienna is over. Come be with me."

It's so harebrained she nearly laughs, and only her own affection for him stops her, allowing her only a smile.

"And my job?" she asks.

"I'll get you any job you like. I'll arrange it."

"It doesn't work that way."

"I'll make it work," he says, a little forcefully.

Ulana thinks of Sonya, dressed exquisitely for that party in the picture she saw, at ease, effortless in her role of Boris's partner. So very unlike herself. She puts a hand on his chest, wishing she could make him unsay what he is asking.

"Boris. I don't belong in your world of lavish parties and politicians. I don't think I'd last through one dinner without saying something wrong. I'm not... the kind of woman you should be with, in your position. I'm... unfit."

Boris lets go of her hand and lies fully on his back, laughing heartily, though Ulana doesn't understand what's so funny. He only stops laughing when he gets a new coughing fit - a raspy, dry cough like the ones she often heard in that ghastly hospital. She didn't notice until now.

"You and Valery," Boris says, still sounding amused. "You'll probably hate to hear this just now, but you're really so alike. Why don't you let _ me _ decide if you're a suitable partner? I'm the only doing the asking, aren't I?"

He's right, she hates being compared to Valery by him. Ulana glares at Boris.

"You don't have to come to any dinners. In fact, I think for my sanity it'd be better if you didn't," he adds, and it sounds like he's teasing her.

"Even so," she says, unamused. "I don't think you understand how incompatible we are, you and I."

"Oh, we'd fight incessantly, I'm well aware. But I still want you."

"And I want you. But I'm not coming to Moscow."

Boris sighs loudly. "Then I guess I'll have to get along really well with those Party members of Minsk so that I can keep coming over and over until I make you change your mind."

"I'm not sure you ever will, you know. I've been called brutally stubborn before."

"So have I, actually. Let's see who gives in first," he says, and kisses her on the lips.

His optimism about all this surprises her. He must be giddy after sex, to take her refusal so lightly. Ulana kisses him back. She's tired and mellow, and it's better than yet another bitter fight. She's all fought out after yesterday, perhaps forever. 

"I have to get dressed," he says. "Should I find myself a hotel for us, for tonight?"

"Ha! I knew it. Is this about my mess?"

"Largely, yes. I still don't understand how you can be so messy."

"There's nothing to understand. It is what it is."

"Hm," he grumbles, and gets out of bed. 

Ulana misses his warmth at once, so keenly that the depth of her feelings for him startles her all anew. She watches him put his trousers back on, enjoying the view until he coughs again.

"Boris," she says. "I think you should see a doctor about your cough."

He glares at her. "It's just a cold."

"Even so. Just to be sure."

"I'm not going to the doctor so that he tells me I have a cold and prescribes me some disgusting syrup. I don't have time for this. It'll go away on its own."

"You know I'm perfectly capable of calling your secretary and persuading her to make you an appointment?"

Boris has his tie on by now and walks over to the bed, glaring at her more.

"I forbid you to do that," he threatens.

"Try to stop me," she says with a sneer, and he kisses her again, harder this time.

"I'll come to Minsk personally to make you regret it."

She grins at him. "Now you're just daring me to do it."

"Just don't," he warns, again, but the way he's looking at her, so fondly, doesn't go at all with his tone.

Please let it be just a cold, she thinks, as she gets out of bed for one last hug. The alternative is too scary to consider. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for canon suicide, though it’s only mentioned and not described. Sorry.
> 
> I would have loved to write more domestic fluff in a certain part of the chapter (spoiler: the middle part), but all things must come to an end, and I feel 34k words is already plenty for what started as a “can I get this to work” crack pairing. It’s been an incredibly fun ride, and it’s actually the first time I posted a fic without being completely done first. Thank you all for the constant feedback, especially Sleepless_Malice, Jennytheshipper, tenar-of-atuan and pottedmusic!
> 
> If you’ve made it this far and enjoyed it, I’d love to hear from you, no matter how long it’s been etc. ♥

* * *

Ulana hesitates before ringing the bell. It feels like a decade ago since she first stood in front of this seamstress shop. She was so angry back then, outraged, she could have slapped Boris if she had the chance. And Valery, trailing after them quietly, just as bemused as her, but already trusting Boris blindly. She wishes she could go back to that night and tell them, both of them, to forget all this, to run away, to spare themselves the pain and heartache. 

But that's impossible.

"Oh hoh," Marfa says when she opens the door after Ulana gets the courage to ring. "I was expecting you, you know."

"What?" Ulana says, laughing a little. "How? I took the train from Minsk this morning on a whim."

"Well, Boris told me you might move to Moscow. I was expecting you any day now. Please, please, come in, my dear."

Ulana shakes her head as she follows her inside. Boris asked her a second time to move to Moscow, and a third, and it's becoming more and more difficult to refuse him, considering his sudden illness. But as far as she's concerned, she hasn't quite agreed yet.

"Boris got a little ahead of himself, I'm afraid," she tells her. "I only came to see an old friend today. I'll be taking the night train back."

"So soon!" Marfa exclaims, leading Ulana to the back room where she has a small sitting room for her clients - the best tea of Moscow, brewed in a huge samovar and served in carefully matched teacups.

"It seems I timed my visit poorly. Boris is not in Moscow today."

Evidently, that had been her plan. To come see Valery to try to reason with him after the Vienna fiasco, and then spend the night with Boris. Every little moment together has become more precious now that he's ill - and every missed opportunity feels like a cruel wound. In the end, she leaves Moscow with her hands empty. Valery was frosty with her and she doesn't think she handled the conversation well at all. And she didn't get to see Boris. No, she doesn't want to stay in Moscow a minute longer than is necessary. The train back to Minsk leaves in three hours.

"Well, no matter," Marfa says, far more cheerful than Ulana feels. "How nice of you to stop by when you have so little time."

"It's the least I could do," Ulana says, watching her as she makes the tea. "You've been so kind to me. Kinder than I deserved, probably."

"Nonsense! You've always been a dear. A little short-tempered, perhaps, but that's not too terrible a fault."

"Many would disagree with you," she says, and manages a laugh. 

"You remind me of Boris when he was younger, you know. I think that's why you two get on so well."

So poorly, rather, Ulana thinks with a smile. She remembers the photographs of the younger Boris and wonders, again, what that man was like. Was he always a pragmatic politician? Did he ever have dreams of a fairer world, only to have them crushed like hers, like Valery's? The last time she came to see Marfa for tea, she let the old woman talk about herself, her shop, her children. Ulana didn't dare to ask the questions really weighing on her mind. But now...

"Have you known him that long, then?" she asks Marfa, who meets her gaze over the tea she's pouring.

"Why, yes, of course. For decades. Sonya was one of my most faithful customers. A friend, really."

Ulana swallows, finding it difficult to voice her next question. "What was she... what was she like?"

"Oh, she was very sweet. Always with a smile on her face. She could sew herself, in fact, she was so very skilled at it. But with three children, a busy husband, and all the Party hoopla she had no time to do her own clothes. We'd spend hours talking about the designs she wanted to wear next. I'd have snapped her up for my shop if Boris hadn't found her first," Marfa says with a laugh. Ulana doesn't know what kind of face she's making, but she must look discomfited enough because the seamstress reaches for one of her hands and squeezes it warmly. "You mustn't worry about being different. It makes all the sense in the world Boris would fall for someone very different next."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Ulana says, feeling rather silly for apparently being so transparent.

"Drink up your tea and don't you worry about all that."

Ulana reaches for her teacup obediently, trying to regain her composure. The tea warms her hands, its fragrance soothing as she takes a sip. She needs more moments like this, removed from all the horror and the arguments she'd rather not revisit.

"Sometimes it feels all I do is fight with the people I love," she muses out loud. 

"Not all fights are bad," Marfa says gently. "As long as you make up after."

"I'm afraid that's the part I'm not good at." 

Not just Valery. Her own children come to mind, with whom she has little contact. But not Boris, somehow - making up with him is the easier part. Maybe she should do it. Call her children. Move to Moscow, be with Boris. Repair whatever's left of her friendship with Valery before the trial comes. Or after the trial, even if he lies. He's _ important _ to her, despite how frustrating this situation has become. Ah, she said all the wrong things to him.

Ulana smiles at Marfa and sets her teacup down to change the subject. 

"I brought you a little something from Minsk." She reaches for her briefcase and takes out the little wooden box. "It's just a box, but I figured a seamstress might find it useful to store things."

"Oh, but it's so lovely!" Marfa reaches for it eagerly, admiring the handmade decorations, elaborate flowers, under the fine black varnish. 

"My grandmother had one like this," Ulana says, softly. "It was lost in the war."

"Thank you so much, my dear. It'll be perfect for storing ribbons." Marfa looks at her conspiratorially. "Say, if you happen to need a wedding dress any time soon..."

Ulana laughs. "No, please! At my age, it would be ridiculous."

"Would it?" Marfa asks, and raises an eyebrow as she takes a sip of tea.

Of course it would be, Ulana thinks. She was not keen to play the part of the blushing bride at twenty with her first marriage, and least of all now. And it's not like... it's not like she and Boris are discussing anything like that. He said _ be _ with me, not marry me. What a scandal it would make in the Party circles, if the Deputy Chairman were to marry the likes of her. No, it's out of the question, especially with the higher stakes at play. The trial first. Then... then, who knows. Marfa reminds her of Boris in that it's very difficult to refuse her anything.

* * *

  
  


Ulana isn't there when Boris returns home, and it heightens his disquiet. It is unusually early for him to be back, yes, and she spends long hours at the library on occasion, but he does wish she was there, sitting at her desk in the guestroom. She rarely tells him what she does during the day, come to think about it. She made it clear she wouldn't from day one, and Boris didn't really insist. He knows she corresponds with her assistant in Minsk about the projects she left behind - all it took was one tersely worded letter from him to the head of her Institute to grant her a sabbatical. A visiting stay at the Kurchatov would have made more sense, but that was off limits forever now.

That day, after the trial, they watched Valery being driven away - away from them. They were _ forced _ to watch, [forced](https://feanope.tumblr.com/post/185959427460/tryingtobealwaystrying-reyloawayfromhome) to stand there (Boris tried to protest he could not, would not be treated that way, but Charkov simply smiled and motioned for a soldier to come closer - with a rifle pointed at Ulana, Boris swallowed his pride and stood where he was told). Centuries after the car left the road, Boris turned to Ulana with tears in his eyes and found her crying openly. Soldier or not, he pulled her against him. She cried harder against his chest, clinging to him. Four months later, they haven't really let go of that tearful embrace: Ulana flew back with him to Moscow, without a word.

Boris fixes himself a drink and decides to wait for her in the guestroom, but he brings the bottle along.

It was painful, at first, to watch her so cowed, quiet like a mouse as she walked in the house, not daring to touch anything in the sitting room, refusing his advances in his bed. Boris ended up offering her the guestroom entirely for her, and he heard her breathe out a sigh of relief. She's made herself at home in there, with the books and the clothes and the documents her assistant sent her from Minsk - though her mess is a lot tamer than Boris expected. Yes, the housekeeper helps, but she only comes in every two days, and there's no shoes or other stuff all over the floor. He can even make out some order in her desk, vaguely. Boris likes it in there. It feels... _ alive_, unlike the rest of the house. He sleeps in there with her rather than in his bedroom, but he's too tired for sex most days. Too tired to stay hard. Sometimes too tired to even bother. Ulana has never complained, but Boris does wonder why she stays with a tired old man who can barely string ten sentences together without coughing.

But when the stars do align and everything works as it should, it's perfect.

He doesn't want to lose this.

Fucking Charkov.

And it isn't just Charkov, it's the entire Cabinet. Boris hasn't felt this isolated since he began working for the Party. There's always been a feeling of fitting in, of people having his back - a feeling that only increased the higher he rose among the ranks. But there is zero support for Legasov now, and Boris is beginning to feel hesitant to bring up the fault in the reactors in the meetings again. After all, it's been decided that Valery's insinuations were dissident delusions. It's terribly damaging for Boris to champion his cause, and nevertheless he cannot stop himself from doing it. He knew it would be a slow battle, but it's going at a snail's pace, he's bleeding out supporters, and he's incredibly aware of Valery's suffering from the periphery - from the distance where he can only watch in helpless silence as his best friend loses everything he ever cared about. _ It didn't matter_, Valery said, _ I had my job, my career_. Now he doesn't even have this.

Boris worries about him, night and day.

And now Charkov...

Boris is on his second drink when he hears the keys of the front door and he immediately perks up from the armchair where he's sitting. He listens for Ulana's heels as she steps inside the flat, tap-tap-tap as she hangs her coat in the coatroom, and even her slight hesitation as she likely notices his coat and deduces Boris is already home.

"In here," he calls, raising his voice to be heard across the rooms, which makes him cough slightly.

Ulana removed her shoes, so she enters the room rather quietly, bringing in the scents of the street with her. When she leans down to kiss his lips, he could swear she smells of apples. She looks so good lately - Marfa has done wonders to let her keep some of her usual style but with much finer materials.

"You're back early," she says, sounding puzzled. Boris holds her hand to keep her near him - the hand that doesn't hold her briefcase.

"Hm," he says. "Where were you?"

Some color rises to her cheeks and she lets go of Boris's hand. She walks over to her desk to put down her briefcase. He knows her enough by now to know she isn't going to lie to him, but her pause to answer alarms him nonetheless.

"Don't get angry," she says, leaning her ass against the desk as she faces him. She looks guilty. Boris doesn't like any of this. "I had a meeting with some of the people from Minenergo."

She said don't get angry, but anger does rise in Boris, quick and suffocating.

"What! What were you thinking?" She doesn't answer, and bites her bottom lip. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" Boris goes on. "This is incredibly dangerous."

"I didn't want you to react like this," she says, with a pinch of sass that irritates him more. "And I wasn't sure they'd come at all."

"Was this the first time?" 

"With them? Yes. But I've already met with the people from Sredmash. And at the Kurchat..."

"Fuck!" Boris shouts, cutting her off, and then coughs. No wonder Charkov approached him. No fucking wonder. Ulana seems startled with his outburst. He doesn't have the energy to stand and crowd over her, but he's sure his glare is more than enough. "You're not in the perfect world of your dreams, Ulana. Didn't it occur to you that you'd be followed?"

"Of course it did. I was very careful," she says, like a naive child.

"Not careful enough. I had Charkov come see me in my office today. Asking me about the nature of our relationship."

Ulana pales a little.

He doesn't want to tell her, all of a sudden. It was one of the most humiliating conversations of his life - insulting for him, but more so for her.

Boris told him the truth, strictly speaking. That she happened to be on leave from her Institute and that he'd offered her the guestroom in his flat. Charkov, of course, wasn't fooled. He likely had at least _ something _ about them, heavens knows what. And with Boris's past indiscretions, the leap was easy to make. Charkov then said, with a condescending smile, _ 'If you're looking to remarry at your age, comrade, surely there is no shortage of suitable young women, loyal to the Party, instead of a difficult scientist who is bordering on dissidence? Her steadfast devotion to Legasov is most unfortunate for her future.' _

"What did you say?" Ulana asks, impatiently. Boris was quiet for a long moment, wasn't he.

"He knows about us. He knows you're seeing people about Valery. He threatened you to my face, and in my current situation I don't think there's anything I could do to free you if he makes a move," he says with a snarl, though his anger is directed at himself rather than her. It's foreign to feel so powerless in his own sphere.

Ulana sighs and hides her face in her hands for a brief moment. "I have to do this," she says, her voice wavering. "I owe it to Valery. He did what I asked him to do. I have to do my part, otherwise they'll have erased him for nothing."

"You're doing more harm than good right now. What will happen to his sacrifice if they erase _ you _?"

She doesn't answer. Boris expected her to fight back, but it rather looks like she's going to cry - uncharacteristically. The worst part is that they'd probably _ kill _ her. She isn't renowned like Valery. She's no one. No one would be scandalized if she disappeared, no one in their country or in the West. But he doesn't want to tell her that. There's no need to hurt her like this - her own scientific irrelevance in this whole affair still stings, he knows.

"What's this about the Kurchatov Institute?" he asks. "Are you in touch with Valery?"

"Not directly, but yes." Ulana bites her lips again. "We have a common friend. She's helped me before. She was willing to forward some correspondence to him."

"Correspondence!" Boris exclaims, nearly choking with horror and breaking into a cough again. It was made crystal clear to them that they were to never, ever, contact Valery. Good grief, why is she like this?

"Would you calm down! I'm not stupid," she says, briskly. 

Ulana turns around to rummage in her briefcase and takes out a piece of paper folded in two. She hands it to Boris, who squints at it without understanding. He's been around them enough to recognize these are chemical equations, but he doesn't grasp what she's trying to show him.

"What?" he asks, not feeling very patient at the moment.

"It's him," she says, just as impatient. "His handwriting. We have a code."

Boris stares down at the paper again. He'd recognize Valery's handwriting anywhere, but these are Latin characters, numbers, and sum signs. He looks up at her blankly, and she sighs.

"These equations are nonsense," she says, pointing at the first line. "These two elements can never go together like this. Anyone familiar with chemistry would know that, though I had to go back to my University textbooks to come up with a proper code. We've been talking like this for weeks."

"Weeks?" Boris whispers, and holds the paper tighter, reverently, wishing he could read it himself. "What is he saying?"

"He says..." Ulana's voice breaks. "He says he's not well. He says he wishes they'd killed him. That this isolation is worse than death."

Boris doesn't bother hiding the tears in his eyes from her. "What did you answer?"

"I reminded him that he's not alone. I said we think of him every day, you and me. I said we love him with all our hearts. Boris, how can I stay with my arms crossed? I have to _ do _ something."

"I'll do something! I'll handle this," Boris says with some force and wipes his eyes impatiently. "I'm trying. I'm trying every day. It's slow, but it'll work. It has to. But you have to stop this. You're going to ruin everything."

"I'm sorry, but I won't stop." The coldness in her gaze shocks him all anew. "We already did things your way once, and look where that got us."

"Are you saying it's my fault?" Boris croaks, unspeakably wounded at the thought.

"Not your fault." Ulana strokes his cheek, her tone soft. "But maybe you were as naive as us about the ruthlessness of this regime, and you never knew."

Charkov called her borderline dissident, but that line has been crossed already, apparently. And Boris happens to agree with her, so what does that make him? This bitter taste in his mouth, he's felt it before but in another context: it's grief, grief for a system he loved and once believed in. A perfectly ingrained machinery turning out to be broken, defective, and useless by the day. It's shredded Valery to pieces. He won't let it crush Ulana too, even if that's the last thing he ever does. He grabs the hand that is stroking his cheek and brings it to his lips.

"Ulana, my love," he says, glancing up to meet her gaze deliberately. He's never called her that before. "It's no longer safe for you in Moscow. You have to lay low now. You have to leave, ideally tonight."

She was teary-eyed before, but the tears spill now - only a few. "I won't stop," she says. "I'll see people in Minsk as well."

"I know I can't stop you. But don't be so reckless. I couldn't bear to lose you now."

Ulana takes a deep breath and holds his face as she bends down to kiss him - the kind of short, passionate kiss Boris loves so much.

"Well," she says as she pulls back, still teary-eyed. "We never did say this was going to be permanent."

"I wanted it to be," Boris admits. He didn't realize until now. He could have her here forever, and it would be just fine. How much time they wasted.

"Make love to me," she whispers, into his ear. 

God, yes. He's going to miss her, all of her. Boris finally stands from the armchair, pulling Ulana against him to kiss her. He walks them towards the bed, his hands all over her body. He doesn't want to get undressed, he wishes he could fuck her just like they are, but he also wants to see her naked one last time, commit her body to his memory, and kiss every inch of her skin before sliding inside her.

"I love you," she says as he lays her down on the bed, her face flushed and her gaze dark with want.

Boris kisses her neck, runs his tongue on her collarbone, strokes some hair out of her face.

"I love you too," he whispers, and he does wish they'd said this earlier.

  


* * *

  
  


Ulana doesn't want to look at the clock by her bedside when she opens her eyes. It's too late, that's what time it is. Two years earlier, sleeping in on a Saturday would have been an extravagance: she went the lab every single day, even on Sundays. What else was there to do? But now she can scarcely make herself get out of bed most mornings. She's so very tired. It's not just the illness, she simply can't be bothered. What does it matter? She's not an idiot. She can tell she's being pushed aside, cornered into quitting. She would have fought back, once upon a time - even if they've been exceedingly accommodating in letting her come in only a few times a week while the treatment is ongoing. What she doesn't tell them is that sometimes she just doesn't bother going to the hospital either. And she's supposed to count herself lucky, the doctors tell her. They caught it in time, it will be easy to treat, she probably won't even lose her hair. Ulana feels anything but lucky these days. 

She thinks of Valery, and prefers staying in bed.

Ah, sometimes she can't believe that he's really gone, that there will be no more letters, that she'll never see his awkward smile or his impatient scowls. They should have done more, she and Boris. She's sure he thinks so too. He used to call her every Sunday without fault - there wasn't much to say, really, it felt more like a formality to remind her he still thought of her. The Sunday after Valery killed himself, Boris didn't call. It's been five weeks and he hasn't called ever again. If it wasn't for Marina Gruzinskaya, who wrote her a couple of cryptic sentences on a postcard, Ulana would have never learned it was a suicide.

She closes her eyes hard, wishing she was still asleep instead of thinking of this.

She must have fallen back asleep, because the insistent knocks on her door startle her awake. It's just past noon now. It should be Kolya. Sometimes he comes over on weekends and brings lunch. Ulana can't fathom why - he must think her too ill or too old already to look after herself. It's his fault her flat has been looking tidier of late, too. Ulana sighs and sits up on the bed. She throws on a bathrobe for good measure and drags herself over to the front door to answer, a little annoyed that the knocks are growing more impatient. (That should have been a clue, really. Kolya is the most patient young man she's ever known - sometimes it's crazy to believe he's her own son.)

But it's _ Boris_.

Ulana gapes at him and wishes she'd had a goddamned shower and combed her hair and generally didn't look like a human disaster. She almost shuts the door again, too embarrassed to look at him. But he seems to anticipate her panic, because he holds the edge of the door with his free hand.

"Sorry I didn't call before," he says, and flashes her a warm smile.

No one has smiled at Ulana like this in months and she's a mess.

"Sorry I look like a slob," she replies, stepping aside to let him in. "I'll change into something less offensive to you."

"I don't really care..." he starts, but she lifts a hand to shut him up.

"I care," she says, and leaves him in the living room as she makes a hasty retreat to at least brush her teeth. 

Over the bathroom sink, she wonders what the hell she'll tell Kolya if he decides to show up too. Is Boris a friend? A colleague? Her former boss? Her ex-lover? She laughs a little, and avoids looking at herself in the mirror. She hasn't laughed in years, it seems. She can hear him coughing in the other room. How lovely, really. Her flat is becoming more and more like a sanatorium these days. When she comes out, looking vaguely less like she just crawled out of a rubbish bin, she finds Boris seated in the kitchen, the table a little small for his long legs.

"You cleaned," he says, sounding impressed.

"It was my son, really," she tells him, and sits across the table from him.

"Hm. Figures," he says raising an eyebrow. "How are you?"

"Sick. Miserable. Angry," she answers, not missing a beat. "And you?"

"The same, really," he says, after a pause.

He looks older than the last time they saw each other (only some months ago. the last time they had sex. the last time she was in Moscow. when Valery was still alive.), but then again, so does she. He's wearing one of the nicer suits and his favorite tie, but there's something... odd, amiss with the way he's dressed. He's lost weight, of course, but it's not just that. She tries not to look at the handkerchief in his fist knowing they'll be traces of blood in it. He holds a brown paper bag with his other hand - he cradles it against him, really, like something very precious. There's a million things she could tell him, starting with her resentment for not calling after Valery died, but she wants him to speak first. Yet Boris stays stubbornly silent at her kitchen table. Ulana taps her fingers against the cheap tablecloth.

"Well?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "What is it? I hope this isn't a sex stopover or I'm afraid I'm going to lie there like an useless ragdoll and leave all the work to you."

Boris laughs a little and breaks into a cough. "Don't give me ideas," he teases, playful, though his playfulness seems to be verging on the edge of tears.

He pushes the paper bag towards her. Ulana sighs and reaches for it, peeking inside. Tapes. Six tapes. She glances up at him, puzzled.

"He left this," Boris says, his voice unsteady. 

He doesn't need to say who _ he _ is. Ulana's heart gives a pang. Oh no. Oh, please no. She isn't strong enough to hear this. 

"I think it was meant to be for you," he goes on, his voice raspier than she remembers. "He talks about what happened in Chernobyl, the faults, the chaos. Everything. I think it's for scientists. For you."

Ulana stares at the bag again, blanking out with Boris's words. Valery left her tapes? Incendiary tapes? Tapes with the truth? She bites back a sob, barely. 

"How did you find them?"

"He told some Marina person something about a hideout before he died. And she then told my secretary, very convolutedly, by the way, but it escaped Charkov's notice. It was a bit of an ordeal not to be seen in his street, but we found them."

"Did you listen to them?" she asks.

"Over and over," Boris says, with some heat in his voice. "In my car, on the long drive to Kiev, until I couldn't bear it anymore. They were for you, I know it. He wanted you to do something with them."

"Circulate them?" Ulana whispers. Her grassroot efforts didn't go very far, but the seed was planted. She knows exactly whom she should send them to, if she were to do that.

"Yes," Boris says, in a whisper too.

She could make copies. Hundreds of copies. Kolya listens to god-awful music on his stereo and she knows he copies tapes of Western songs from his friends who go to Germany. If she could borrow the machine for a week, two weeks... Yes, she could do this. And she could send them, distribute them herself, even. Valery won't be silenced. Won't be forgotten. Won't have died for nothing. Ulana takes a deep breath and sits up straighter in her chair. It's the first time in five weeks she's felt the rush of a tangible purpose firing up the parts of her brain that were dormant, asleep. The first time she thinks maybe it's too soon for her to die, after all. 

"Thank you," she tells Boris.

He looks into her eyes and reaches for both her hands, as if understanding how much this means to her. It's a bit ridiculous to fixate on this now, but his hands are so large. Distractingly large as they hold hers so tightly. Warm. She likes it. She missed this.

"Why didn't you call me?" Ulana asks, a little surprised with how broken she sounds.

"I couldn't," Boris says, looking pained. "My every move was under surveillance. I couldn't take a shit without Charkov knowing." Ulana snorts. "But that's all been dealt with. He won't be in office much longer, I hear."

Dealt with? She looks at him more closely, still trying to find out why he looks so different. It's not just the grief, or the whiter hair. Her eyes wander down his suit jacket again, over the lapel, and it hits her. No flag. She's never seen Boris without the flag pin on his suit.

"Your pin," she says, alarmed. "Boris, what have you done?"

"I quit." He lets go of her hands. "Officially, retired due to poor health. But I couldn't bear to be in the Cabinet a minute longer after he died. I waited three weeks, the time to organize my affairs and tie some loose ends. Then I left."

"You left!" She stares at him, wide-eyed. "Were there no repercussions?"

"Frankly, I think they were relieved to be rid of me. I don't think they're after me. I drove to Kiev to be with my daughter and laid low for a week. I don't think I was followed. They'll be expecting me to die any moment now."

She can't comprehend this for a moment. She knows how much it meant to him, his work, his position, his status - his clothes, for heaven's sake. He's evidently ill, but to throw all that away? For Valery's memory? Ulana has been stoically resisting crying for over a month, and yet the depth of Boris's love for Valery shocks her all anew, enough for some treacherous tears. She stands from the table, not wanting Boris to see.

"Tea," she mumbles. "Do you want tea?"

"Yes?" he says, sounding puzzled. "With honey."

"I know how you drink your tea, Boris," she grumbles, as she stuffs the teapot with leaves and starts some water on the stove.

Kolya is a good son, but he isn't a martyr: there are no clean cups in the cupboard, all piled up in the sink where she discarded them. Ulana sighs and starts the water to scrub two cups clean. Valery was so brave, so brave - and she was so hard on him. She wishes she could unsay things to him, replace them with what she really felt. The chemistry code was too primitive to convey how much she loved him and admired him. 

After a moment, Ulana hears some drawers being open and she glances up: Boris is standing next to her by the sink, with what looks to be the lone clean drying rag of the kitchen. Figures he'd find it. He holds a hand out for the first cup when she's done washing it, to dry it himself. She stares a little: it's foreign to see him do mundane tasks, despite having lived with him for four months. In Moscow, they left everything to the housekeeper and her husband. They were in charge of cleaning that set of flats for high-ranking officials. Between the two of them, they probably knew more secrets than the KGB. Hell, they probably _ were _ KGB, now that Ulana thinks about it. She frowns, thinking of all the semen-stained bed sheets and clothes they must have reported back. She's been letting the water run for the second cup and she shakes her head at herself.

"I suppose you'll be moving in with your daughter, in Kiev?" she says, to fill the silence as she rinses the cup.

"Not really," Boris says, his voice a little strange. "I was hoping to move here."

"What, to Minsk?" she asks, handing him the cup for him to dry.

Boris takes the cup with the cloth and turns it in his hand absentmindedly, not really drying it.

"Here, with you," he says, and meets her gaze.

Oh.

"In my tiny, messy little flat?" she asks, disbelieving to the point of amusement. "Fighting all the time? With no housekeeper, no coffee beans, no expensive bed sheets?"

"With you," Boris repeats, raising both eyebrows. He sets the undried cup by the sink, along with the rag, and takes a step closer to her. "That's the other reason I quit. I don't have much to offer, Ulana. Not even time, I'm afraid. I'm a dying old man. But we had some good moments, didn't we? I don't mind the fighting. I think I even like it. You'd make me very happy, too happy, really, if I could spend what's left of my life with you."

Oh, but this sounds suspiciously like a proposal. Ulana stares at the water still running in the sink, a little too shocked to close the tap, and wanting to smile but not daring to, not yet. The water in the pot has started to boil enthusiastically, behind her, but she also makes no move to stop that. She rests her hands on the edge of the sink and glances at him sideways. 

"Are you asking what I think you're asking?" she manages to ask, her tone teasing somehow.

"I'm asking you to marry me, my silly, annoying, gorgeous girl."

Is Ulana allowed to smile, to feel this happy, when she also feels like crying? They've already lost Valery. Are they selfish, she and Boris, to still be alive like this after he's died? They're both seriously ill, and Boris does seem to be getting more frail. Two decades ago, after her divorce, she swore to herself she'd never remarry. And yet. Everything is so dreary and gloomy in her life, in the lab - where Dmitry has been promoted and has become the de-facto principal investigator in her stead. And this? This is a ray of sunshine, a tiny, barely glowing ray of sunshine after a long winter. She'd make him happy, he said. She's forgotten what that's like, and yet she wants it desperately.

They'll spend a lot of time in the flat, Boris and her. 

They may not have very long left to live, but maybe from now on they can make up for the time Chernobyl has robbed them of. Every day, day after day. 

Ulana lets out half a laugh, half a sob as she turns towards him.

"Yes!" she says, and Boris bends down to kiss her lips.

  
  
  
  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bonus ideas for this verse here on my [ blog](https://chernoblank.tumblr.com/tagged/like-cats-and-dogs)!


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